


All Those Things You've Always Pined For

by LavenderProse



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Catholic Characters, Christmas, Inspired by a Movie, Kid Fic, M/M, Married Couple, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:33:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 92,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3256787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LavenderProse/pseuds/LavenderProse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Steve Rogers. I haven’t thought about him in…God, at least ten years. Probably longer."</i>
  <br/>
  <i>“Who is he?” Sharon asks, and perches on the corner of his desk, hands folded in her lap. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Bucky clears his throat, tosses the sticky note onto the desk. “Steve was…my college boyfriend. We almost got married.”</i>
</p><p>It's been fifteen years since Bucky Barnes left Steve Rogers standing in a New York airport and never saw him again. Those fifteen years have brought him wealth and stability; everything his lower middle class Brooklyn upbringing had not provided. He is happy. He doesn't want for anything.<br/>He doesn't <i>need</i> anything.<br/>That's about to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has been a labor of love that started roughly four days before Christmas. First intended to be twenty-thousand words at most, it has grown a mind of its own. This story is complete and will be eleven chapters in total, with a possible epilogue which is as of yet unwritten. Time willing, there will be regular updates on Fridays.
> 
> Please note the rating. There will be several instances of semi-explicit sexual activity.
> 
> The plot is a somewhat loose approximation of the plot of the 2000 movie _The Family Man_. There will be added scenes and slight differences in plot. If you've seen the movie, the similarities will be apparent but you don't need to have watched the movie to read this. In fact, I would prefer you didn't watch the movie before you read this. The less people who read this story and unwillingly imagine Nic Cage as Bucky Barnes the better. (There was mental bleed. It was disturbing.)

When Bucky wakes up, Lorraine is already pulling her shoes onto her feet. He must make a noise or a sudden movement, because she looks up through her curtains of blonde hair and announces, “Last night was incredible,” in her low, husky voice. She’s smart enough not to continue and say something like ‘Can I see you again?’, and Bucky appreciates her for it.

Possibly because he’s just woken up, and also possibly because he knows what tomorrow is, he follows her progress to the bedroom door and says, “You wanna do this again tonight?” Waking up alone on Christmas is a bit of a bummer, and he’s done it often enough in the last fifteen years to know it. It’s been a very long time since any of his romantic liaisons could be considered anything but a hookup, but having another warm body to wake up to on Christmas is a luxury that he’ll allow himself. James Barnes isn’t in the habit if denying himself luxuries.

Lorraine stops in the doorway, turns half around and favors him with a bemused smirk. “It’s Christmas Eve, James.”

Bucky sits up in bed and raises an eyebrow. “All the more reason. ‘Tis the season to be jolly.”

She chuckles. It’s reminiscent of a cat. “I have to visit my parents. In Boston. I’m heading to the train station now.” She rakes a hand through her hair, which bounces right back into its elegant, cascading waves down her chest and back. Sometimes Bucky still wonders how women do that, how they go to bed after sex looking taken apart and debauched, and wake up the next morning without a hair out of place. “I’ll be back in New York on the 27th, if you want to do something for New Year’s.”

With a smile to signal no hard feelings kept, Bucky says, “Yeah, sounds great. I’ll call you.” He hasn’t given his number to someone on a personal basis in about ten years. If he changes his mind, he has the option of just not calling.

Lorraine’s mouth curls at the corners, like she’s aware of exactly what he’s up to (and he wouldn’t be surprised; she’s a professional woman as well, has probably told her fair handful of guys the exact same thing) but she still blows him a kiss on her way out the door. Part of him is tempted to perform some antic, catch it out of the air and hold it to his chest, but he hasn’t done anything like that since college, when he was still Bucky Barnes to others and not just his own internal monologue.

He doesn’t dwell on this thought. It’s just not something he does. Instead, he gets out of bed and makes himself a cup of coffee (An underling gave him a Keurig for his birthday two years ago, no doubt trying to suck up without any regard for subtlety, but it’s been a godsend all the same) and eats a breakfast bar in two bites. It wakes him up, makes him feel a bit more alive and helps to clear the residual fuzziness that two glasses of campaign and one of cognac left him with last night. For the next hour, he jogs on the treadmill set in front of his living room windows, smart phone on some special holster that clips to the display (another bribe) so that he can scroll through the relevant websites.

Halfway through this morning ritual of scroll-jog-scroll, a call comes through on a number he doesn’t recognize. It’s local, but then so are a lot of wrong numbers. He refuses it with barely a thought, barely a pause in his gait, and pants, “If it’s important, you’ll leave a message.” He can almost hear his mother saying it even as it comes out his own mouth, years of her yelling at the phone when it rang during dinner time, Bucky giggling around a mouthful of tuna casserole.

He finishes his jog without further interruptions, grabs a towel and lumbers into the bathroom. As he showers, the lyrics to _Have a Holly Jolly Christmas_ leave his lips without his strict permission, but it’s one of those songs that you can’t help but listen to four times a day between November 1 st and December 31st. He turns his head towards the spray of water, like a turkey in the rain, to drown out the sound of his own singing.

His closet is a walk-in, roughly twelve by fourteen feet; probably about the size of the living room in the house where he grew up. One entire wall is just suits in varying shades of black, dark grey and navy. This morning, he selects a dark grey number, because the grey matches his winter coat better, and carries it with him back into the bedroom, drapes at the end of his bed. In the mirror, he shaves and styles his hair (Checking for grays which he doesn’t have, but it’s a habit; his mother started going grey at thirty and he’s thirty-six) into the slicked-back look he prefers. He spends a moment posturing into the mirror because Bucky Barnes will admit to being a lot of things, and his vanity is…admittedly not one of them, but it’s something that he has inwardly come to terms with.

Strangely, he hasn’t always been this way. There was a time before all of this, before becoming junior vice president and then senior vice president and then _president_ of the company, when he would roll out of bed ten minutes before he had to be somewhere and throw on jeans and a shirt. Used to glance in the mirror and, if he didn’t look like death warmed over, deem himself worthy of public consumption. Sometimes he even let himself leave the house when he did look like a member of the walking dead.

Things haven’t been that way in a long time.

He realizes that he has been standing, staring at the tile of the bathroom for longer than necessary, grumbles at himself for getting caught up in reminiscing—dwelling in the past is not something that James Barnes does—and stomps back into the bedroom. He dresses in short, precise movements like he does everything; neither the minimum or maximum amount of effort but just _right_ , everything careful and calculated, even in private. He was once told by a colonel at a party that he had the look and presence of ex-military, asked if he’d ever served. Bucky had smiled politely, shook his head with a laugh, like that was an amusing idea, and neglected to mention that he almost joined the army when he was eighteen and didn’t think he had anywhere to go.

How far he’s come. He pulls up a pair of silk socks and does not think about a childhood during which he sometimes had no socks. Damn the holidays for making people broody and sentimental. He sighs and rolls his eyes at himself, pulls on a pair of Italian shoes and makes mental note to tell his assistant to make some sizeable donation to a children’s charity out of his personal account.

It is, after all, Christmas.

In the elevator, _Have a Holly Jolly Christmas_ is seeping softly through the speakers. Bucky hums along, loudly, in spite of himself until the elevator receives another occupant. On the tenth floor, which can only mean that it’s Herr Schmidt. Indeed, the doors open and the man steps on, gives Bucky a once-over that makes his skin crawl and greets, “James.” His accent makes it sound like he’s not saying Bucky’s name, but is just announcing the word _yams_ to the elevator. Sometimes Bucky finds the guy amusing. Others—most—he just finds him repugnant.

Herr Schmidt is some old, creepy German expatriate that, as far as anyone can tell, has lived in this building since the dawn of time. He predates every else’s memory, even the doorman’s, so no one is quite sure when he got here. The entire building is pretty sure that he’s also an old, creepy Nazi, but there’s no real proof. He and Bucky are the vice-president and treasurer of the co-op board, respectively, and because of this Bucky also knows that Herr Schmidt is an old, creepy poof. Bucky hadn’t even been living here a month when Schmidt first came onto him, and he seems incapable of taking no for an answer. Bucky should know; he’s been saying no for seven years.

“Any Christmas plans, James?” Schmidt asks. The watery things his accent does to his vowels might be attractive if he weren’t approximately a century old and sleazy as fuck.

Bucky says, “Ah, no. Not really,” without thinking. Realizes too late that he should have said something, anything, but that. Should have made something up if nothing else.

Schmidt fixes him with a look and says, “Well, I would love to have you for dinner. Over for dinner, that is. It will be a rather private affair, I’m afraid. Just the two of us. But I’m making my mother’s roast duck with apple stuffing. It is, if I do say so myself, to die for.”

The elevator doors open, and Bucky has never been so grateful in his life. He forces out a laugh, because part of him is still afraid that Herr Schmidt is going to sneak into his apartment one night and flay him. Says, “Um, thanks for the offer, Herr Schmidt. I’ll think about it.” Which really means _No, not for a million years and not even then you walking corpse_ , but he still has to live with the man.

As they exit the elevator, Herr Schmidt says, “Please, James. We’ve been living together for seven years. Call me Johann.” He touches Bucky’s shoulder, smiles, and trails his eyes over his body slowly. When he pulls away, Bucky is ready to go right back upstairs and take another shower.

“Oh, sweet mother Mary,” he whispers to himself, as Herr Schmidt finally slips out the revolving doors. He leans against the concierge desk and rubs his brow. He does not need something like that this early in the morning.

“Alright there, Mister Barnes?”

Bucky glances up, finds the face of Happy on the other side of the desk. He clears his throat, nods and straightens up. “Yeah. Just a rough morning.”

Happy says, “I saw that blonde that came out of the elevator earlier. I figured she was coming from your apartment.” He gives a wink, and it would be a bit lascivious if Bucky didn’t know that Happy was possibly the most cheerful and earnest person in existence. He still isn’t sure if Happy is a name or a nickname, but Bucky has never heard anyone call him anything else in his seven years living here.

With a smirk, Bucky says, “Yeah. She’s gorgeous, ain’t she?”

“That a serious thing, or…?”

Bucky leans back, barks out a laugh as he shakes his head. “God, no. I met her last night. Not sure I’ll ever see her again, to be honest.” He slaps a hand on the desk, once-twice, and steps back and towards the door, nodding his farewell to Happy. “Have a good day, Happy. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you too, Mister Barnes.”

Outside, it’s snowing. He pulls his camelhair coat closer to himself and presses his nose into his scarf. The walk to his car—a sleek, black Ferrari FF—is short but grueling, and he turns the heat all the way up when he gets into it. The revs the engine, just because he can, and peels out of the underground parking structure.

* * *

“…and everyone knows that tomorrow, we’re closing a deal that is going to revolutionize the way people look at StarkTech. I know tomorrow is Christmas and everyone will want to celebrate and blah blah blah, but this deal is important to all of us. I’m gonna need you all to be here, and not complain about it…” He glances out of the corner of his eye, to his senior vice president poking at a bauble hanging off the small Christmas tree someone put in the middle of the conference table. “…and not drift off in the middle of meetings. Penny for your thoughts, Arnim?”

It takes Zola a moment to realize that the entire conference room has gone silent, and then a second longer to realize that he is now the focus of the room. He jumps to attention, sits up straight in his chair and stutters, “Oh, um…no. It’s just. It’s Christmas Eve. I was hoping to be home before dark. I made a promise to my wife.”

“Do you think I want to be here any more than you, Arnim?”

“Well…sometimes I wonder,” Arnim mumbles, and there’s a smattering of half-nervous laughter. Bucky gives a short smile, if only to display that he does, in fact, have a sense of humor about himself. Arnim adds, “Sometimes I just wonder where your holiday spirit is, that’s all.”

Bucky nods sympathetically, because he’s not entirely cold-hearted even if he doesn’t understand the softness that people are prone to when family is involved. He pats Zola’s shoulder and straightens up and says, “Look, I know it’s difficult. But each and every one of you has put months of your lives into this merger, and this is the culmination of all our efforts. At midnight on December 26th, S.H.I.E.L.D will officially join the StarkTech conglomerate. After that, you all have my express permission to celebrate however you want. Sleep for twenty-four hours straight, if you want. I know that’s what I’ll be doing.”

Another titter of laughter, this one generally good-humored. He smiles, crosses his arms and nods at the presentation still on display at the front of the room. “We have twenty-eight hours until the merger officially goes through. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow. I want everyone to go home, get plenty of sleep, and come in bright and early.”

There is a general clamor as twelve people all rise at the same time and exit the board room. For each person that exits, an assistant glues themselves to their side as they come out the doors. Bucky is no different. Sharon falls seamlessly into stride with him as he walks across the floor to his office, tapping away at her smartphone.

“So how was the meeting, Scrooge?” she inquires, without looking up. She’s practically a superhuman, with the way she can walk, talk and text without ever having to look up or break her concentration.

Bucky rolls his eyes and quirks his lips. “Oh, come on. Don’t be that way. You know that having a full business day tomorrow is necessary. Why are you complaining? Got a hot date?” He bumps their shoulders together. They have an easy camaraderie that’s hard to come by in business, probably because they’ve been together since the beginning. Most people assume that StarkTech runs on the raw willpower of James Barnes alone, but Bucky and Sharon both know that the company would not exist in its current form without her contributions.

“Yes, actually. I have a long-standing date with my mattress on Christmas and I promised it that I wouldn’t be getting out of it until at least two PM. Now I’m going to have to let it down. Again.” At last, she puts away her phone and looks up at him. “See, when I decided not to have kids, I sort of figured that getting out of bed before eight AM on Christmas was something I would never have to do.”

Bucky pushes open the door to his office, stops to pour himself a glass of sparkling water at the bar in the corner and tips it at her with a smirk. “Well, Sharon, that makes two of us. I guess we’ll just have to suffer together.” He takes a sip, crosses the room to his chair, sits. “Besides, I think I’m being very festive. The sound of seventy-six billion dollars going straight into StarkTech’s pocket sounds almost exactly like jingle bells to me.” He leans back and folds his arms behind his head.

“Alright, Kris Kringle,” she mutters. “Only two calls today. Someone from Neiman Marcus called; your suits have come in.” She hands the note to Bucky, who gives a little hum of recognition and pleasure. “As if you didn’t have enough already.”

“Nothing suits me like a suit, Sharon,” he drawls. He scans the sticky note— _“Marion” Neiman Marcus suits_ —and nods. “Just have them deliver to the office like always.”

“Already done. They should be here on the 26th.” Sharon hands him the other note. “The other call was from someone named Steve Rogers. Well, his assistant. Said you could call him back anytime today.”

The name doesn’t ring a bell for a moment, until Bucky pulls his head out of his ass and realizes just who Steve Rogers is. He leans back in his chair, stares at the name _Steve Rogers_ in blue ink on one of Sharon’s trademark pink sticky notes. It’s like two entirely separate portions of his mind meeting for the first time. He traces a hand down his face, huffs out a breath, mutters, “Steve Rogers. I haven’t thought about him in…God, at least ten years. Probably longer.”

“Who is he?” Sharon asks, and perches on the corner of his desk, hands folded in her lap. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Bucky clears his throat, tosses the sticky note onto the desk. “Steve was…my college boyfriend. We almost got married.”

Sharon snorts, pulls her light grey suit jacket closer to her body. “You, married. Yeah right.”

“Almost,” Bucky corrects. “I almost married him instead of going to Berlin for the internship with Hydra Enterprises.”

“Wow,” Sharon drawls. There’s a soft look in her eyes, but her mouth is a sharp smirk. “If it was anyone but you saying that, I’d probably believe it.”

“No, I’m serious, I did,” Bucky chuckles. “I was twenty-one and I was in love and I almost thought that was enough. I was different.” He rests his elbows on his chair arms, drops his eyes back to the sticky note on his desk. _Steve Rogers call anytime_. “A lot of things were different.”

* * *

**December 27 th, 1999; John F. Kennedy Airport, international departures gate 2C**

* * *

_"This is the last boarding call for Lufthansa flight 454 to Berlin Tegel. Please proceed to Gate 3 and have boarding pass in hand. I repeat: This is the last boarding call for Lufthansa flight 454 to Berlin Tegel. Thank you.”_

Neither of them moves for a moment, then Steve mumbles, “You have your ticket, right?” and stands up. There is a woman at the boarding desk watching them closely, obviously waiting for one or both of them to board. They’re the only ones left at the gate.

“Uh…yeah. Yeah.” Bucky pulls the ticket out of his left jacket pocket, shows it to Steve. “Right here.”

“Good,” Steve says, and he stares at Bucky for a moment, with Bucky staring right back. He’s wearing Bucky’s old windbreaker, hair unstyled and limp on his head, hiding the shaved sides and the tattoo on the right side. Bucky wishes he could make that look on Steve’s face go away, but it’s just not possible. He’s leaving, and they both know it. They both know it’s something he has to do. Steve looks down into the bag in his hands, clears his throat, and says, “So, I brought you something. A few things. Just to, y’know, keep you company. I guess?”

They’ve never been awkward around each other, and Bucky knows that this isn’t really awkwardness. It’s the melancholy weighing on them that makes it hard to interact.

“Yeah?” Bucky asks. “You didn’t have to get me anything, bud.” Bucky’s windbreaker is about three sizes too big for him and has a hole in the cotton lining. Bucky burrows his finger into that hole now. Presses his nose to Steve’s temple and says, “But since you did, what is it?”

“It’s nothing special. Just…” He reaches into the bag and pulls out a sketchbook. He hands it to Bucky, says, “You can have that. The whole thing. It’s not full, but there are drawings, and notes. It’s just something to remind you of me, let you know I’m thinking of you.” Bucky wants to say something, but Steve is already plunging his hand back into the bag and bringing out a copy of _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_. Bucky’s favorite book. “Your copy was getting old. You can read it on the plane. Or something.”

“Thank you, bud,” Bucky whispers, staring down at the two books clasped tight in his big hands. “Thank you. It means a lot, it really does.”

“One more thing,” Steve says, and spares an anxious glance for the clock above the boarding desk. He speaks to the attendant. “One minute, ma’am. Please. He’ll be right there.” He reaches into his pocket and brings out a silver chain. Bucky realizes after a moment that it’s not just a chain; at the end hangs one of the Rogers family heirlooms. A small, silver compass. “This compass helped my grandfather make it through Austria. He always said it was good luck. Maybe it’ll help you come back to me.”

Bucky takes the compass. It’s small and fits in the palm of his hand. He flips it open, and finds a picture pressed into the lid. Him and Steve, and Steve’s got his head on Bucky’s chest, all that blond hair fanned around his head like a halo. Bucky doesn’t know when the picture was taken or who by. He doesn’t even know where they were, but a lump forms in his throat like it’s a reminder of some deep, visceral memory.

“Steve…this is…”

“Too much?” Steve asks, hesitant. His hands flutter next to Bucky’s, ready to take it back.

“No, no,” Bucky says, and closes the compass, hangs it from his neck before Steve can take it back. “No, it’s great. It’s perfect. It’s…” He sighs, leans down and presses their mouths together. “Boy, am I gonna miss you, buddy.”

“You too, pal,” Steve sighs, and presses his forehead underneath Bucky’s chin. “Just come back to me, alright?”

“You know it,” Bucky says, and pulls away with incredible reluctance. “You and me, bud. ‘Til the end of the line.”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, hands still curled into the flaps of Bucky’s coat. He tilts his head up for a kiss, which Bucky delivers, and then lets him go. His eyes look too shiny and red blotchiness is rising in his cheeks. He swipes a thumb under one eye and tries to make it look like he’s scratching his cheek, because he hates people seeing him cry. This thumb comes away wet. “So, um. Yeah. Go get ‘em, Tiger. Europe won’t know what hit it.”

“Hey,” Bucky says. Claps his head onto Steve’s shoulder. “I love you.”

Steve nods, licks his lips. “Yeah, I love you too.”

“Goo—“

“Don’t say it.” Steve shakes his head in two jerky movements, left-right. “Just don’t.”

Bucky pauses, mouth hanging open mid-word, then he nods. Clicks his jaw shut and nods. “Yeah, alright. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

“How can I? You’re takin’ all the stupid with you.”

Bucky turns his eyes to the ceiling, wonders how he can want to laugh and cry at the same time. “You’re such a punk.”

“Jerk,” Steve says, and he gives a watery chuckle as Bucky dives in for one more kiss. “Go, get out of here. Can’t stand the sight of your ugly mug anymore.”

He laughs, and takes five big steps backwards, thumps a hand on his chest and points at Steve, who points at him and thumps his own hand over his heart. They both laugh, and Steve’s lips wiggle as the lump in Bucky’s throat gets harder, more painful. Before he can have an utter meltdown in the middle of JFK Airport, he turns around and hitches his carryon further up his shoulder, shoves the books safely into a pocket on the bag and digs his ticket out of his coat.

“Wait.”

Bucky stops, turns around. The woman behind the desk looks put out, but he doesn’t really care that much. “What, Steve? I’ve gotta get on a plane, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Steve opens his mouth, hesitates for a moment. When Bucky makes a frantic look with his eyebrows and mouth, Steve blurts, “Don’t go.”

“Steve, c’mon, don’t kid around—“

“I’m serious. Don’t go. Don’t go to Berlin, Buck. I got a real bad feeling about this.” He crosses the distance between them in fewer strides than Bucky would have thought him capable of. His hands fist into Bucky’s coat again. “It doesn’t feel right, feels like…”

“Waddaya mean, bad feeling? Like what, you think I’m in danger?” He glances at the attendant, leans his head closer to Steve’s and presses a reassuring hand to his back. “Y’think the plane’s gonna crash? Don’t say that, bud, ‘m nervous enough about transatlantic flying as it is—“

“No, no, it’s just…” Steve sighs, and his hands clench tighter. “I know we agreed. I know that. But part of me…there’s part of me that feels like, if you get on that plane, you won’t come back.”

Bucky stares at him. “I have to come back, pal; my visa’s only good for a year.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it!” Steve snaps. “I mean…we’ve made all these plans, and I know that this is the start of the plan, you going off to Germany, but I…” He sighs, ducks his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m sorry Buck, I’m actin’ nuts.”

Rubbing Steve’s back, Bucky sighs, “No, it’s alright. We’re at the airport; no one thinks clearly at the airport. It’ll be fine. I’ll spend a year in Berlin, probably workin’ my damn ass raw for Hydra. You…” He laughs, pulls Steve close. “You keep makin’ art. Y’hear? You draw or paint or _something_ every day.” He kisses Steve’s cheek.

“Excuse me, sir, but the plane starts taxiing in five minutes—“

“One damn minute,” he snaps over his shoulder, and the attendant falls into silence. He looks down at Steve, whose fine-boned face looks both beautiful and terrible with shimmery wetness beneath both his eyes. “We’ll be fine, Steve. We’re gonna do great things.”

“You wanna do something great, Bucky?” Steve asks, fierce determination leaking out of every pore. “Don’t get on that plane. Come back home with me. Let’s start our lives, let’s not wait a minute longer. I dunno what’ll happen, but I know that there’ll be you and me, and that’s all that’s ever mattered.” He clears his throat, presses his body as close to Bucky’s as possible, and Bucky has to bend his head at an awkward angle to maintain eye contact. “C’mon, Buck. Please. Please don’t go.”

Bucky glances back at the attendant, down at Steve, down as his ticket and back to Steve. He sets his jaw and wraps his arms tight around Steve’s middle, whispers, “I love you, Steve,” and kisses him.

With an exhale of relief, Steve kisses back. He sinks his slim fingers into Bucky’s long, wild hair and whispers, “Oh, thank God. I love you too, Bucky, I really do—“

“And a year in Germany isn’t gonna stop that,” Bucky says, pulling back. Pulling all of himself back, because he doesn’t trust himself to get on that plane, get where he needs to go, if he touches Steve for one more minute. “A million years couldn’t stop that.”

He turns, and gives the attendant his ticket. She doesn’t make eye contact with either of them—and Bucky’s relieved, because it would be pretty awkward after a scene like that. He hikes his duffle up onto his shoulder, takes his ticket back from the attendant after she looks at it and stamps it, and enters the gate for the plane. He resists the urge to look back until he’s at the bend of the gate, and then throws just the barest glimpse back over his shoulder.

Steve has a hand fisted in his hair, pulling it away from his face. Crying in earnest. It’s too painful to look at for more than a split-second, so he doesn’t.

* * *

**December 24 th 2014**

* * *

The image of Steve crying in an airport fifteen years ago is a hard one to shake. Bucky stares down at his desk until Sharon gets off and slides into one of the two leather chairs across from him, crosses her legs and drawls, “So…you gonna call him?”

Bucky sighs. “Maybe later.”

“Oh, c’mon, James. You almost married the guy.”

From the door, a boom of, “Who’s marrying who?” announces the arrival of the company’s chairman. He breezes in, all swagger even at age seventy-something. Heads straight for the bar, where he pours himself a tumbler of rum. “You getting married, Barnes?” He examines them over the rim of his glass.

“Turn up your hearing aids, you old coot,” Bucky says, and slips right out of melancholy and right back into cockiness. He crosses his legs and presses himself back into the cradle of his wingback office chair. “She said almost married. Some old flame of mine called earlier today, wants me to call back.”

“Ah, ignore it,” Howard mutters. Sits down in the unoccupied chair. “It’s the holidays. People get sentimental. She’s probably lonely, wants to reminisce. Don’t encourage it.” He sips from the glass in his hand. “I was only married once, that was enough for me. Gave me a son.” He scowls across Bucky’s desk at the thought of his only child. “Tony could learn a thing or two from you, Barnes. You’re the same age, and yet you’re president of my company while he’s off cavorting with some redhead, peddling… _clean energy_. Isn’t that a kick in the head?”

“Ain’t it, though,” Bucky says, noncommittally. He met Stark the younger a total of once, and it was at a party five years ago. The guy talked a mile a minute about things that Bucky couldn’t even begin to understand, in words he wasn’t sure were English. He also drank about an entire bottle of tequila and didn’t sway once all night; it was enough to earn him Bucky’s respect. Howard is a genius too, but in different ways. He’s also cantankerous and obnoxiously self-righteous and everything Bucky hates about the older generation. He raises an eyebrow at the other man, asks, “So, Howard, what brings you to mingle among the little people?”

“Can’t a guy come and say hello?”

Bucky smirks. “Not when the guy owns the building.”

Howard shrugs. “Got me there. I need a favor.” He leans forward, locks his fingers together. “Phil Coulson is getting nervous. He needs some hand-holding for the merger tomorrow.”

“I would too,” Bucky says. “Seventy-six billion dollars is a lot.” He stares at Howard for a moment, eyes narrowing steadily. “Where exactly is Phil Coulson on this fine holiday eve?”

“Portland,” says Howard, and he has the grace to sound just a little guilty. “I need you to go talk him through this, James. If there was anyone else, I would send them, but you’re the only one I can trust to keep Coulson in our pocket.”

“I’ve gotta be with my people on this end, Howard.”

Again, Howard waves a dismissive hand. “Zola can get them through it. He’s not half as useless as he appears. It’s just that everyone seems useless next to you, Barnes.”

He knows Howard has said this to flatter, but Bucky can’t help it; he preens. He smoothes a hand through his hair and smirks, throws a glance in Sharon’s direction. “Book me a flight to Portland, Sharon. Then get yourself home. Looks like you won’t have to come in tomorrow after all.”

Howard returns the smirk. It makes his mustache look a bit like a question mark. “Knew I could count on you, Barnes.” He finishes his rum in one gulp, sets the tumbler down on the edge of Bucky’s desk, and rises from his seat. “Let me know as soon as you get to Portland. I’ll be at my sister’s on Martha’s Vineyard.” He gives an exaggerated shudder. “Luckily, she hasn’t set up some bullshit no cellphone rule. Yet.”

“Roger that, boss,” he says. Howard leaves with Sharon on his heels. As soon as the door clicks shut behind her, he crumples up the sticky note with Steve’s name and number on it, throws it to the bottom of his wastepaper basket. It makes a metallic _tink_ as it hits. He stares at it for too long and mumbles, “Sorry, Steve.”

* * *

It’s even colder outside when he leaves for the night. Even his camelhair cannot properly defend against it. He huffs to himself, watching his breath swirl up and towards the dark, starless sky. His car is parked in a reserved space right in front of the building next to Howard’s. He spends a long minute staring at the sign marking the spot as his: ‘Reserved—James B. Barnes, President’. Looks up and down the disserted street, spares a thought for everyone in this city, what they’re doing at nine PM on Christmas Eve. Many of them, he knows, are probably wrapping presents, and will be until the small hours of the morning. The idea is almost depressing, but not for the reasons he would have thought.

He gets into his car and lets it warm up, puts it into drive and heads off down the street. He doesn’t drive for long. He doesn’t know if it’s because his mind is elsewhere, or because the streetlights seem to be out on this particular block, but his headlights catch the form of a man standing stock-still in the middle of the street just in time for him to bring his car to a screeching halt, inches from the man’s kneecaps.

He sits there for a moment, shocked. The other man doesn’t move, just stares at him. Bucky can see his eyes through the windshield and meets them with his own, but they seem to stare through him.

Finally, he reacts. He rolls down his window, leans his head out. “ _What the fuck do you think you’re doing_?! I could have _killed_ you! Are you fucking _suicidal_?”

The other man doesn’t respond for a moment. Bucky feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up. There’s something about this that doesn’t feel right.

“Nah,” says the man eventually. He steps around the car to Bucky’s window, leans down. Bucky can make out his features clearly now, can see that he’s dark skinned and van dyke bearded, with high cheek bones, mouth and eyes that would be friendly if they weren’t frowning at Bucky with speculation. Like this guy had almost hit Bucky with his car and not the other way around. “Just waiting for someone, I guess. Didn’t think the guy I was looking for would be _in_ the car.”

“ _What_?” Bucky demands. This is before he notices what this other man is wearing. He’s got nothing on but an oversized sweatshirt and a pair of nylon track pants. With an outfit like that in below freezing temperatures, there’s only one thing a person can be. Homeless. Also possibly deranged, if his ramblings are anything to go by, but definitely homeless. Bucky takes up a different approach. “Hey, alright, it’s…sorry, you gave me a shock there. Here, let me…” He opens the door of the car against his better judgment, but he figures he’s less likely to upset this guy if he’s not sitting pretty in the front seat of a 200,000 dollar car. At their full heights, he stands several inches shorter than this other man. Carefully, he locks the car behind him. “Do you have anywhere to stay? I know some shelters.”

A smile splits the man’s face. He uses all his teeth and his eyes and it should be reassuring, but it’s not. “Oh, are you trying to help me?”

“Yes,” says Bucky.

“That’s funny,” he says. “That’s real funny, Bucky.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “How’d you know my name?” More importantly, his nickname. The one he hasn’t heard on another person’s lips in fifteen years.

“You just look like a Bucky,” he says with a shrug. Bucky’s stomach knots with unease. He wants to get back in his car and drive off. “White boy with a trench coat and some kinda hairdo that looks like it hopped outta 1945? Yeah, sure. Bucky. Look like you belong in a cheerios commercial or some shit.”

“Okay,” Bucky says slowly. “What’s your name, then?”

“Lotsa people have lotsa names for me,” he says. Walks around to the hood of Bucky’s car and plops himself down on it. “You? Hmm. You can call me Sam.”

“Sam,” Bucky repeats. “Okay. Do you need something…Sam? Is there a reason you were standing in front of my car?”

Sam laughs, shakes his head. “Man, don’t even try to pull that psychoanalysis shit on me. Doesn’t work. I’m not the one that needs helping here.”

“Everyone needs something,” Bucky says carefully.

“Okay, big shot,” Sam says, nodding at him. “You need something? What is it?”

“Nothing,” Bucky says automatically, because it’s true. He’s got the life of dreams. He’s got what every middle class American aspires to have and more. “I mean, not anymore. I have everything I need. I’m not the one standing out here in a sweatshirt.”

Sam glances down at himself, raising an eyebrow. “Huh. So I am.” He looks back up at Bucky. “Doesn’t really matter what I look like, does it?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?” Bucky demands. This conversation is becoming ridiculous and _confusing_ with the meandering circles Sam is weaving it in, and he doesn’t know why he’s continuing to let it happen. “Look, just…just get off my car, okay? I’ll help you. I can take you to a shelter, or I can buy you some food, or…do you want money? Just straight up cash? I have that, too.”

Sam looks away, up at the sky as though he expects someone to hear him when he says, “This guy just isn’t getting it.” He turns back to Bucky, slides off the car and says, “You don’t need anything. You’ve got everything you need?” At Bucky’s nod, he clears his throat and nods. “Alright. Wow, must be great to be you.” He digs his hands into his pockets, purses his lips, and nods again. “Alright. Alright, fine. We’ll have a little fun with this. Just remember that you brought this on yourself, Bucky.”

“Brought _what_ on myself?” Bucky demands, but Sam is already walking away. He disappears around the corner and, like a switch has been turned on, all the streetlights on the block flicker to life. Bucky looks up, stares at the snow particles caught in the beams of light, and runs his hand through his hair. Part of him is worried that Sam is going to press charges or something, that he’s going to sue Bucky for almost hitting him with his car. He pats down his pockets, making sure he has his wallet and his keys just in case.

 _You brought this on yourself_.

Bucky wants to take those words as the rambling of the mentally unhinged, but something keeps him from that conjecture. Perhaps the clarity in Sam’s eyes. Perhaps the fact that the unease stays with him, in the pit of his stomach, even as he drives back to his apartment. Stays for the next three hours, as he climbs into the treadmill for his evening jog, as he fixes and eats dinner, as he goes to bed. He lays awake for a long time, staring at the glowing red numbers on his clock until he finally falls asleep as they near midnight.


	2. Chapter 2

When Bucky wakes up, he first notices that his bed feels unusually lumpy. He shifts to see if the blankets have gotten trapped underneath his back, and then realizes that he cannot move.

Because someone is lying on top of him.

Slowly, he raises his head up. On his chest, there is a mop of tangled golden blond hair. It’s all over the place, and he can’t see the face it belongs to. All that is visible are slender shoulders leading down to a smooth, naked back. He follows the line of the other person’s spine to the elastic of a pair of boxers. American flag boxers. There is one arm flung over his waist and another—he shifts again—underneath his back. One thin thigh is thrown over both of his legs. The other leg is the only portion of this other person that is actually under blankets. He moves his head, tries to see the other person’s face.

This gets a reaction. The arm on his waist waves around limply. “Shh, Buck. Ten more minutes. S’Christmas.”

A deep voice. A man’s voice. His movements get more frantic.

“Bucky,” comes the insistent whine. There it is again; some stranger knowing his boyhood nickname. “M’serious. Sleeping.”

He looks around the room. There are books and children’s toys strewn about, a cluster of framed photographs on a nightstand next to the bed. The sheets are not the black silk of his own bed but a sprawl of cotton plaid monstrosity. He doesn’t remember going home with someone else last night. He only remembers leaving the office and almost hitting that guy in the street, the cryptic words breathed on the frigid night air. Who was that guy?

More importantly, who’s the guy sprawled across his chest?

“Um…excuse me…” he says, and lifts a hand to nudge the motionless body pinning him to the lumpy mattress. Before he has a chance though, there is a commotion down the hall; a barking dog, a child laughing and a baby squealing. It draws closer.

“Jingle bells, batman smells!” Now the child is singing. “Robin laid an egg! The bat-mobile lost a wheel and la la la—!”

Around the corner careens a little girl with warm brown skin and curly black hair. In her arms is an infant, soft and pink and brunet. Bucky can’t decipher a gender. On their heels, an enormous golden retriever bounds into the room, its tags clinking off each other. Bucky feels his mouth drop open. What kind of horror film has he woken up in?

The other man finally stirs (“Ugh, never mind…”) when the girl jumps up on the bed, although not before placing the infant carefully down where they won’t roll off. He sighs, shakes his blond hair out of his eyes as he sits up, and Bucky finally figures out who it is.

Steve. Steve Rogers.

Bucky rubs his eyes frantically, blinks hard a few times and looks back up. Still Steve. He looks older and…healthier, Bucky guesses he would say. Steve was always skinny and Bucky doesn’t think that will ever change, but now there’s a bit more flesh on him. Doesn’t look so much like a stiff wind will blow him over. He was adorable when they were going out, very much still locked in a kind of late-teen clumsy cuteness, but now he’s…something else. Something more. Bucky stares at him for a long time, despite the distractions of the children and the dog hopping up on the bed. Steve sits up all the way and pulls the baby into his lap, coos, “Peter! Merry Christmas, Peter. Can you smile for Daddy?”

“Daddy,” says the little girl, and unreservedly _climbs_ onto Bucky’s chest. She sits there for a minute, staring at him, and then repeats, “Daddy,” with a little shake. It takes him longer than it should to realize that she is addressing him. That something has possessed this little girl to call him _daddy_.

“Um,” he says. “What’s going on here?”

“America,” says Steve, glancing over at the little girl. “Don’t climb on Daddy.”

The little girl—America?—turns her attention to Steve. “Daddy, you know what we should do? We should open some presents.” She clamors off of Bucky, and he finally kicks himself into high gear. He jumps out of bed and surveys the scene with mounting horror. He’s in some cramped bedroom with Steve Rogers, two kids he does not know, and a dog whose personal mission in life seems to be producing enough saliva to drown a small army.

_How did he get here._

Steve looks at him, does a double take, and Bucky thinks this is it—he’ll realize that Bucky is the wrong guy, that he’s not these kids’ daddy or whatever, that there’s been some major (huge; colossal; astronomical) misunderstanding.

But all he says is, “Christ, Bucky, put some clothes on.” He slides a pair of sweatpants off the headboard and flings them; they hit Bucky in the chest. He glances down and realizes that he’s indeed naked.

“Aw hell, why am I _nude_?” he demands as he shoves his legs into the sweatpants—orange enough to make his eyes sore. He was definitely wearing pants when he went to bed last night. Cashmere pajama pants, _thank you_. He knows because it’s what he wears to bed _every night_. Because now he remembers going home, and eating dinner and going to bed, and Steve Rogers had not featured in any of those activities. The razor edge of panic starts to cut into Bucky’s chest.

Steve snorts around his armful of baby. “I ain’t gonna explain it to you, bud.”

Something in Bucky’s chest yanks at the old nickname, even as he pulls a ratty old tee-shirt he finds on the floor (Dark purple with ‘NYU’ in white block letters across the chest) over his head. He’d forgotten that Steve called him that. That he called Steve that.

He trips over no less than four things on his way to the bedroom door. As he passes the end of the bed, Steve grabs his wrist and says, “Bucky,” like he’s pleading. Bucky looks back at him, meets his eyes (And he’d forgotten just how fucking _blue_ this guy’s eyes are) and for a minute, time stands still. He’s convinced that Steve is going to realize something is wrong, that he’s going to scream.

All that comes out his mouth is, “Coffee. Strong coffee.” Then he’s letting go. Bucky backs away, almost tripping over a pair of boots on the floor. He bends down and picks them up, shoves them on his feet mechanically as he hops out the bedroom and down the stairs. He has no idea where the front door is.

“What the fuck, what the _fuck?”_ he hisses to himself, raking a hand through his hair. He does an entire circuit of the house before he locates the door. “Where the fuck am I? What’s happening? What the _fuck?”_

He finally gets a hand on the door as it swings open. He has to jerk back several steps to avoid being hit. In the door comes Peggy Carter, looking just as beautiful as the day Bucky last slapped eyes on her—probably fourteen years ago now. Their friendship didn’t outlive his and Steve’s relationship by very long. He saw her once, shortly after he returned from Germany, and that was more a courtesy call. He remembers her staring at him sadly as she handed over a plastic bag full of CDs that Steve didn’t want anymore and technically belonged to him.

“Peggy,” he breathes. Into the house behind her steps a wall of a man carrying an armful of presents. “Peggy’s…boyfriend…”

“Ha-bloody-ha,” Peggy mutters. She shakes a few snowflakes out of her brown hair—longer than he remembers her wearing it before, but still curled flawlessly—and unwraps a jewel blue scarf from around her neck. “Go set the presents under the tree, Gabe. Where’s Steve? Still upstairs? I’d’ve thought the kids would have had you up at the crack of dawn.” She stops for a moment, takes in Bucky’s appearance. “Going somewhere?”

“Just to get…uh…” he gestures vaguely, trying to inch around her to the door. _What is happening??_

“Oh, not on _Christmas_ ,” Peggy says, and obviously takes Bucky’s gestures to mean something else. “What is it? The inhaler?”

Gabe’s hulking figure squeezes back into the foyer. “Need me to make a run to Walgreen’s?”

“What? No. It’s not…it’s…” He shakes his head in self-surrender, lurches for the door handle and wrenches it open. Outside, there are two vehicles. One is a beaten-up red minivan with salt stains all up and down the bottom. The other is a four-year-old Lincoln. His Ferrari is nowhere in sight. He ducks his head back into the house. “Where’s my Ferrari?”

“Ferrari?” Peggy demands. “What are you talking about?” Over her shoulder, she asks Gabe, “What’s he talking about?”

“No idea,” Gabe says, coat halfway off his body. “Look at him, he’s probably still half-asleep. Thinks that minivan sittin’ out there is a Ferrari.” Gabe tilts his head to the side. “You okay, man? Maybe I should go to the store. You’re gonna wanna watch your kids open their presents, and I don’t think America’ll be able to wait much longer.”

“No, no, I’m goin’,” Bucky says. “I’m just…where’re my _keys…_?”

“Probably in your coat,” Peggy says. She and Gabe both sound skeptical, and he really hopes that they’re wising up to something being wrong with this situation.

He’s about to admit that he has no idea where his coat _is,_ when Peggy opens a small closet cattycorner to the front door and pulls out some old beaten up sheepskin bomber jacket. She tosses it at him and he catches it, pulls it on—it’s too big by at least half a size—and hears the jingling of keys in the pocket. He pulls them out, one leg already out the door. As an afterthought, he glances back and says, “Hey…one of you…put on some coffee, alright? Strong.”

“Sure thing,” Gabe says. He rounds the corner without hesitance, obviously knowing the house better than Bucky. Peggy just stares at Bucky with concern as he finally extracts himself from the house of horrors and rushes—or, rather, slips and slides and trips—his way down the front path. The keys in his hands are a mess of keychains—gimmicky, touristy items from places like Niagara Falls—and little silver keys that he can’t even begin to figure out what they unlock. Also on the keychain are two car keys. He has no way of telling what either of them unlocks—one of them has the Volkswagen logo on it; the other the Ford symbol. He presses a button on the Ford key at random. The minivan beeps.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, but gets inside because he has no choice and _he’s got to get out of here_.

He wrinkles his nose. The inside of the car smells like an offensive combination of gasoline, wet dog and paint. The upholstery is polyester and somehow feels itchy even through the fabric of the sweatpants he’s still wearing. He glances in the rearview mirror and sees himself for the first time—hair limp and unwashed, wrinkles under his eyes. And there—sticking up in the middle of his forehead—is a _grey hair_. He lets out some loud, vague exclamation that makes his own ears ring in the enclosed space and pulls it straight out of his head before he can think. Remembers his mother saying  _if you pull out the grays two just pop back out_ and yells again. Puts the car in drive and squeals out of the driveway. The minivan rumbles like it’s on its last legs. Probably is. Bucky slows down because if the car breaks down, he’ll have no way of getting into the city.

He’s halfway down the street when he realizes that he has no fucking _clue_ where he is. Only from the street sign on the corner does he gather the information that he is on Midland Avenue. His first instinct is Google, but how many _Midland Avenues_ are there in the United States? And does he even have a way to Google? His phone is…well, he doesn’t fucking _know_ , and a perfunctory pat of his pockets reveals nothing but four crumpled dollar bills and a small handful of miscellaneous change. Also, strangely enough, an inhaler. He dumps all of these items into the cupholders and commences glancing back and forth on the street, just on the off chance someone is standing there that he can ask.

Finally, someone shows up. A woman in pink pajamas and a purple parka is standing in slippers on the curb. She appears to be dragging a large box out. He slows down, rolls down the window and calls, “Hey! Hey, where am I? What city is this?”

She bends down and grins at him. “Hey you. Why are you out driving so early on Christmas? Where’re Steve and the kids?”

He groans inwardly, and possibly outwardly as well. Of course. Because everyone in the world has gone fucking nuts, even random women on the side of the road.

“No, I’m serious. I don’t know who you think I am, but I really need to get out of this place. Which is…?”

She frowns and furrows her brows. “Paramus.”

He lets his head thump back against the headrest. “Paramus. I’m in fucking _New Jersey_?” What the fuck. What the fuck. How does he get to the island from here? He’s only been to Paramus once in his fucking life and it was to visit the grandmother of a girlfriend he had in _high school_. He obviously can’t ask this woman because she’ll think he’s either joking around or gone nuts and he can’t deal with either of those situations at this point. All he can do is roll up the widow and drive off, resolve to follow the street signs.

Thirty minutes later, he crosses the George Washington Bridge and breathes a sigh of relief. His hands loosen from their death grip in the steering wheel. He doesn’t know what’s happening or what he’s going to do once he figures it out, and for some reason he can’t get that guy from last night and his disconcerting words (“You brought this on yourself”) out of his mind. He only knows that Manhattan is where he belongs, and he feels more at ease just by breathing its air. His head still feels jumbled, and as he takes the familiar route to his building (Albeit with the unfamiliar, constant threat of the damn transmission falling right out the bottom of the rusted car chassis) he scrambles for any logical explanation.

So far, none are making themselves apparent.

Happy is stationed at the front door when he pulls up to the curb. Normally he would pull into the underground parking structure, but he doesn’t have his resident ID needed to open the gate, not without his wallet, and he doesn’t feel like arguing with whichever sixteen-year-old is operating the booth today. Happy knows him. Happy will let him in. He flings himself out of the car and pulls the sheepskin further around himself. All he wants to do is go upstairs and sleep forever.

Of course, that can’t happen.

“Sorry, sir, you can’t come in here,” Happy says, holding out a hand. “We’re not open to the public. This entrance is for residents and visitors only. If you’re looking for a public restroom, there’s a bank down the street; I think they have one.”

“Happy,” he says, and he’s all but begging at this point. “Please. Oh my God, please just let me in. I don’t know what’s going on, but the world’s gone to Hell in a handbasket and I can’t deal with you being in on whatever _insanity_ is happening right now.”

Happy raises his eyebrows. “Sounds like you’re having a rough day pal, but I can’t let you in.” He squints at Bucky’s face. “Do I know you?”

“Yes!” Bucky explodes, flinging his arms out. “I live on the twelfth damn floor, penthouse A. I’m the treasurer of the co-op board. For your birthday, I bought you a bag of coffee that cost three-hundred and eighty damned dollars because it was pooped out of a fucking _cat’s ass_.”

“Is everything alright here?”

The hair on the back of Bucky’s neck stands up, which is an engrained response to Herr Schmidt’s voice, but a strange sensation of relief rushes through him. For the first time in seven years—and he never thought this would happen—he is grateful to hear that greasy German accent. If Bucky batted his eyelashes, Herr Schmidt would probably roll over and beg. Or whatever the ex-Nazi sleazeball version of that is.

“Herr Sch— _Johann_ ,” Bucky says. He wants to gag. “Johann, I’m so happy to see you.”

Herr Schmidt raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

“Oh my God,” Bucky breathes. Because if Herr Schmidt won’t admit to knowing Bucky in this _fucked up alternate universe into which he has clearly fallen_ , he doesn’t know who will. He backs up to the minivan, raking his hands through his hair. “Oh my God.”

“Hey, am I gonna have to call the cops?” Happy demands.

“Oh no,” drawls Herr Schmidt, and he’s looking at Bucky with that…look in his eyes. Bucky hopes that maybe he’s giving up the ghost. A hope is promptly dashed when he continues, “I don’t think he will be any trouble, Happy. Come here, _miene kliene Maus_. Come up to my rooms, I will fix you some tea.”

Even Happy looks a little uneasy. Bucky swats violently at Herr Schmidt. “Stay the fuck away from me, you disgusting fucking Nazi!”

He ducks back into the car. It doesn’t start on the first try, and he feels like his life flashes before his eyes—being arrested in front of his own apartment building on Christmas Day or worse, being propositioned by Herr Schmidt again. Even having to face the guy again after calling him a disgusting fucking Nazi (And yeah, okay, he’ll probably feel bad about that later…maybe) makes him break out in a cold sweat.

Finally, the car starts. He peels away from the curb and speeds down the street. He doesn’t know where to go, doesn’t know what to do. His head is a nonstop jumble of panic and he can’t think to do anything but go to his office. Nobody can stop him from going up to his office, having a drink and curling up in a ball until all of this goes away and the world rights itself.

He barely makes it past the front door before the security guard says, “Sorry, sir. This building is closed for the holiday. It reopens tomorrow at eight AM.”

Bucky stops. His head falls to his chest, he closes his eyes and takes three deep, long breaths. Looks back up and says, “I. Am the president. Of this company.”

“Look, buddy, I don’t care if you’re the Queen of England—“

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes,” he announces, almost yelling over the security guard’s booming voice, amplified by the echo of the marble and granite lobby. “I am one of Forbes’ 40 under 40 and I am the President of StarkTech, the 10th ranked corporation in the world. It would be nice if someone would recognize that and _TELL ME WHAT IS HAPPENING_.”

There are three long beats of silence interrupted only by Bucky’s voice ricocheting off the walls. The security guard does not look impressed, even as Bucky heaves from his wasted breath.

“You’re going to have to leave, sir,” says the security guard as Bucky’s voice fades to nothingness. “Now, please.”

Bucky stomps, quivering, out the door. Walks across the street in a daze of anger and confusion and probably a bit of terror. Where does he go? What does he do? He can’t get into his apartment or his office. He has no idea how to get back to the house he woke up in. He can’t even remember what street it was. Main? Mayfair? Midway?

As he’s crossing the street, an engine roars towards him. He doesn’t have time to react. He just braces for impact, because part of him still doesn’t want to die, and prays that the driver can stop and to Bucky’s relief he apparently can. Tires squeal on the pavement and the engine sounds quiet into an idle, replaced by the driver bellowing, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? I could have _killed_ you! Are you suicidal?”

There’s a strange edge of sarcasm to the words. Bucky looks up and squints through the window, trying to see the driver. _Have a Holly Jolly Christmas_ is blasting out the windows.

“You could have put a dent in my 200,000 dollar car!”

Bucky rounds the hood and leans down to the window. Sam smiles back at him. The interior of the car is black leather, and the screen in the consol displays: ‘SYNCED TO DEVICE: james_phone’.

Sam says, “’Sup, big shot.” He smirks. “Or, I guess, not so big shot now.”

“This is my car,” Bucky says hoarsely. From disbelief as much as from the shouting he’s just done. “You’re in my car. How did you…”

“Why don’t you hop in, Bucky,” Sam says. Leans across the consol to pop open the passenger side door. “Sit down before you fall down.”

Bucky wants to refuse, wants to tell Sam to get out of _his damn car_ , but after the last few hours, he can’t bring himself to. Something tells him that the physics of the world has realigned to crusade against him, and that Sam is the only way he’s going to get any answers. He stumbles to the passenger side door and gets in, slams the door behind him and stares, gritting his teeth, across the car at Sam. Waits for the other man to speak.

“Look, man,” Sam says, as he puts the car into drive and continues down the street. “I’m sorry I had to spring that on you like that. But there are rules, and there’s really no way to…ease someone into a thing like this, y’know? It kind of has to be a shock to the senses; that’s the point.”

“What,” Bucky growls, hunkering down in the corner of seat and door as Sam speeds up, “is happening to me?”

Sam produces a paper bag from nowhere and hands it over. “Breathe into the bag, man. This kinda thing makes a lotta folks pass out; I’ve seen it happen. Breathe.”

Bucky takes the bag but ignores it in favor of repeating, “ _What is happening?_ ”

“To be fair, I did warn you,” Sam says. “Which is something a lotta people don’t get. I told you, you brought this on yourself. I dunno why you’re so surprised.”

“Brought what on myself?” Bucky demands, because those words have been spinning around and around in his head for hours now, since last night, and they’ve made less and less sense on every circuit. “I didn’t do anything. All I ever wanted to do was live my life, and then you come along and, what, switch us around? Are you me now, or something?”

Sam chuckles. “No offense, man, but I wouldn’t be you if you paid me. No, Mister No Regrets, this isn’t Freaky Friday.”

“Then what _is_ this?” Bucky demands. “Some kind of…permanent…acid trip?!” He twists Sam’s paper bag in his hands until it rips.

“This,” Sam says, like he should be up on a stage somewhere, pulling the rope to a curtain, “is a glimpse, Buckaroo.”

“A glimpse?” Bucky demands. “What’s a glimpse?”

“Now, I can’t answer that question for you,” Sam says. Says it like teachers used to when Bucky asked questions about tests. He hated it then, and he hates it now. “Not in the least because glimpses aren’t really consistent things. They’re different for everyone. For some it takes a few seconds, an instant. I’m told that some people call them epiphanies.” Sam glances at Bucky. “For some, it takes a whole helluva lot longer.”

“I don’t understand,” Bucky mumbles. Buries his face in his hands as Sam takes a sharp corner. It feels like he’s going in circles. “I…I don’t understand.”

“Nor should you,” Sam assures, with a pat to Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky can’t even bring himself to swat him away. “If you did, this wouldn’t be a glimpse, would it?” He stops and pauses for a moment, then says, almost gently, “Everyone else is frozen, Bucky. Everyone in the world but you. You’re getting a glimpse.” Sam turns the car again.

“A glimpse of what?” Bucky asks. “Hell?”

“That’s what you’ve gotta figure out,” Sam says. “And when you do, everything’ll go back to normal. Of course, by then, you might not want it to.”

“I can’t be doing this now,” Bucky groans. “I’m working on a deal—a merger—it’s supposed to be the single most important move of my career—“

“Do me a favor, man,” Sam says, “and don’t think about your career. Think about you. Might help.” With that, Sam stops the car. Reaches into the consol and pulls out a plastic bag which he hands over to Bucky. “Here. You’ll need that.”

Bucky takes the bag, reaches into it and pulls out a bicycle bell. A pink bicycle bell with those two princesses from that new Disney movie about perpetual winter, or whatever. Bucky remembers not being able to get that damnable song out of his head for a month this time last year. He also doesn’t know why he’s thinking about that, of all things. Maybe he really is going insane.

“What is this?” he mumbles. “If…if I ring this, will you come? Or something?”

With a raised eyebrow, Sam demands, “Do I look like I live in a lamp?”

Bucky just stares at him.

Sam unlocks the doors. “It’s time to get out of the car, Bucky.” Out the window, the red minivan sits with a rapidly-growing layer of snow on its hood. Bucky could have sworn that they were only in the car for a few minutes, but the layer of snow on the minivan is thick. Like it’s been sitting there for hours.

“What do I do?” Bucky asks. He feels paralyzed. “I don’t know who I am or…or where I live. What do I do?”

“Look,” Sam sighs, leaning back against the chair. “I’d love to help you; I really would. But there are rules that say I _can’t_ do that, and I gotta follow the rules. Alright? So get out the car.” He waits for Bucky to get out, and when he doesn’t, repeats, “Get out of the car, James.” Again, Bucky doesn’t move. Sam moves his hand from the steering wheel, thumps his fingers on the consol a few times, then drags a hand down his face. “Alright. You wanna talk? We’ll talk. But I’m not gonna do it in the middle of the street. Let’s get out, go somewhere quiet. People can’t overhear.”

“Okay,” Bucky says with relief. “Alright, thank you.” He opens the door and hears Sam do the same, gets out and closes the door.

Only for Sam to slam his door and take off. In Bucky’s car. Bucky tries very hard not to sob openly as he pulls the keys to the minivan out of his pocket, shoves the plastic bag with the bell into it, and gets in.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I know this chapter was short--it's actually the shortest chapter in the story--so I'm thinking about posting another chapter between here and Friday. What do you guys think?  
> If you'd like, you can come cry about Stucky with me on Tumblr under the same username.


	3. Chapter 3

It takes him an hour and a half to get back to the right neighborhood. He has to fish the registration for the car out of the glove box to figure out what his own address is. The car is registered to someone named Steven Barnes. It takes him a moment to realize that that’s Steve. He sits at a stop sign for a long time, staring into the middle distance and thinking about this situation. Steve. Two kids. A dog. A house in fucking Paramus. Why has he been transplanted to this reality? How is he supposed to find something he _needs_ here?

A car honks behind him. He gets moving. Does circles in the subdivision that he’s _pretty_ sure he came from for about fifteen minutes, until he gives up and pulls over to ask. If this person recognizes him, then so be it.

There’s a family outside on their front lawn; a man, a woman and a little girl. The guy is kneeling next to the little girl, teaching her how to use what looks like a miniature bow and arrow. Probably a Christmas gift. A bizarre fucking Christmas gift.

He rolls down the window. “Hey! Do either of you know where Midland Avenue is?”

The little girl and the woman look up, but the guy doesn’t.

A smirk arches into the woman’s face. She’s pretty, with red hair and smooth skin. Bucky feels like he recognizes her…or should. “Oh, there you are.” She looks down. Nudges the guy in the butt. “Hey, we found James. We weren’t even trying.”

Of course. Of fucking course they know him.

“What?” demands the guy, even though she said it loud enough for even Bucky to hear.

“ _Turn up your hearing aids_ ,” she says, very loudly. “ _What’s the point of having them if you’re not going to use them_?” She looks up at Bucky and shakes her head, as though she expects him to empathize with her situation. “ _Bozhe moy_.”

“Nat, you shouldn’t swear in front of Kate; she knows enough Russian to know what you’re—“ The guy looks up, catches sight of Bucky finally. “Hey! Where’ve you been? Steve called. He’s worried sick.” He straightens up, shakes the snow off his mittens. His daughter begins the attempt to climbing up his leg. “Hey, why don’t you come in for a minute? You look like you could use a drink.”

“It’s two in the afternoon, Clint,” ‘Nat’ says, fixing ‘Clint’ with a look.

Clint shrugs. “So? Don’t get all righteous on me, Miss ‘Vodka is like Mother’s Milk’. Just because you can’t drink, doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t.” He looks back at Bucky. “C’mon in, man. Just for a minute, then you should go back to Steve before he decides to come looking for your sorry ass himself.”

“Uncle Bucky,” says Kate, pulling on the hem of his jacket. “Look what Santa brought me for Christmas!” She waves the bow around. Bucky just stares at her.

Because he doesn’t know what else to do, and something tells him that trying to explain this situation to the others will not improve it or get him out of it, Bucky puts the car in park and gets out. Shuffles across the lawn to Clint and stares at him as he picks up his daughter and hands her to Nat. “Here, go get her packed to go to your mom’s. She’s getting here at four?”

“Six,” Nat says. Hitches Kate up on her hip, to a responding squeal. She might be than the little girl from earlier, but not by much. A year at most. “I’ve told you this like ten times.”

“I know! Sorry, sorry, I forget.” He turns to Bucky and says, “Come on, before I freeze my butt off.”

Behind their backs, Kate says, “Bye, Uncle Bucky…”

Bucky follows Clint blindly, into the front door of the house and through the living room to the basement. It’s finished, with a sectional pushed into one corner and a flat screen against the opposite wall. There’s a nook on the opposite side of the room where a playhouse has been constructed. Bucky takes a minute to appreciate it. It’s clearly homemade, and the craftsmanship is pretty spectacular. There are two levels, with a play oven and a child-sized table with chair on the lower one. The upper level is padded and has a little shelf next to it, empty at the present moment. It’s accessible by a ladder on one end and a slide at the other. The entire thing is painted to look like a log cabin.

Clint comes in behind him. “You like it? It’s part of Kate’s Christmas presents. It was hell keeping her from coming down here for the last week and a half.”

“You build it?” Bucky asks, not sure why he cares.

Clint laughs. “Hah, are you serious? You know how useless I am with that sort of shit. Nat put it together, Steve painted it. I’m surprised he didn’t tell you.” He pats Bucky’s shoulder and walks away, to a small bar that’s just awkwardly sitting on one side of the room, off-center with two stools in front of it and a dozen bottles on top. “We had to move the bar to make room for it; haven’t quite figured out where to put it yet. We might just get rid of it. It’s not good to have all these booze out where Kate can get her hands on it. Small price to pay though, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. His voice cracks. He clears it and tries again. “Yeah.”

At the bar, Clint retrieves two glasses and pours amber liquid into both. He drifts over and takes the glass, swirls it around and sips it. He doesn’t know what it is but it burns, which is good enough for him at the moment. He glances back at the playhouse. “She’ll outgrow it in two years. Three at most. Dunno why you bothered.” He glances back at Clint, and realizes that was the wrong thing to say. Clint looks like he’s just been called a horrible name. To save face, Bucky smirks halfheartedly and gives a, “Haha,” and takes another sip. Clint’s expression goes back to normal.

“Yeah,” he says, staring at the playhouse speculatively. “But, y’know, then we’ve got the one that’s on the way, and he or she’ll get a solid seven or eight years out of it. Kate’ll be in high school by then, or close to it. Nat figures we can cannibalize the wood and make a couple of desks or whatever. Something they’ll need.”

“She’s pregnant?” Bucky asks, gesturing to the floor above with the hand that’s holding his drink. “She doesn’t look it.”

Clint grins. “Don’t be an asshole, man. I know Steve isn’t about to pop out any babies but you know they don’t start showing until, like, four months.” He stretches. “You weren’t around a lot when Nat was pregnant with Kate, but she didn’t start showing until it was almost time to start pushing. I mean, really. It was like she went to bed one day with a flat stomach and woke up the size of a beach ball. It was kind of bizarre.”

Bucky takes a deep swig. “I know the feeling.”

Clint fiddles with something at the sides of his head. “What? Sorry, man. I turned down my hearing aids earlier. Kate was squealing and it was makin’ ‘em ring.”

“Nothing,” Bucky says, shaking his head. He looks for the first time at the pictures on the walls. Most of them are of Clint and Nat, or Nat and Kate; various permutations of the entire family unit, but there are a couple that draw his gaze. There is one of him, Steve, Clint and Nat sitting at a table together. Judging by the white tablecloths and the drinkware and the clothing, they’re at some fancy restaurant or a banquet of some sort. Perhaps a wedding. Below it is a picture of Bucky and Clint in the same suits, but there is no evidence of whether it’s for the same occasion or not. They have their arms around each other’s shoulders, laughing about something Bucky will never know.

“We’re friends,” he says slowly.

Something in Clint’s expression goes soft. “Yeah, man. We are. So talk to me. What’s going on?”

Bucky shrugs noncommittally.

“C’mon, man. I know something’s up. You run out of the house on Christmas and you don’t tell anyone where you’re going? Doesn’t sound good. So what’s going on? Something happening at the shop? I’ll nip any bullshit in the bud and you know that.” When Bucky doesn’t react, he ventures, “You and Steve okay? You guys having a fight, or something?”

Again, Bucky shrugs, because he doesn’t know what answer to give. “I’m just…having a bad day.”

Clint nods. “Yeah, I know. Holidays can be rough on people. Couples especially. Two Christmases ago, Nat and I? We had it out. It was nasty. We were at her parents’ and her dad, he has these…hunting knives I guess you would call ‘em, and she threw one at me.” Bucky must look alarmed, because Clint waves a hand. “I mean, not _at_ me. Towards me. It missed by a mile, and you know Nat. If she wanted to, she would’ve hit me.”

Bucky clears his throat. “I don’t think Steve’s ever tried to throw a knife at me.” He remembers getting into fights with Steve when they were dating. They went out for four years, so there was time for a couple of doozies. He doesn’t remember any physical violence; Bucky wouldn’t have raised a hand to him for anything, and Steve liked to do this thing where he stood there, motionless, and just yelled. He remembers how loud they could get though. Remembers Steve screaming so loud that it rang in his ears, and himself yelling back until his face was red and his throat was sore. “I think he might’ve…thrown a phone. Once. On the floor.”

“Yours?”

“No, his.”

Clint grins. “Sounds like your boy.”

Bucky processes those words. Lets them trickle over the cogs of his mind. Slowly, he states, “Steve’s my husband,” just to hear it out loud. It sounds bizarre.

“You know what I mean,” Clint says. Finishes his drink and adds, “Speaking of your husband, he’ll only get madder the longer you sit here. Gotta face the music at some point. Let’s go, I’ll walk you.” He comes out from behind the bar and leads Bucky out a door opposite the staircase. It opens directly outside, where a flight of ten stone steps deposits them in the driveway. Clint curls a hand onto his shoulder and leads the way, across the street and through a backyard, blanketed in snow and strewn with kids’ toys, dog toys and patio furniture.

“Look,” Clint says as they walk, “I know how it feels. We’re practically the same person, so believe me; I know how it feels. You’re in your thirties, you’re living in New Jersey…you wake up one morning and realize that this isn’t the life you dreamt about when you were eighteen.”

But I did have the life I dreamed of, Bucky wants to say, I _did_.

“Suddenly, you’re watching a damned Gucci commercial and it represents everything you can’t have.” Clint stops now, in the middle of the suburban wreckage that is this snow-covered backyard, and turns to face Bucky. “But you can’t dwell on it. You’ve got a great life, man. A house, two cars, kids, a dog. _Steve_. You’re married to a good man, Bucky. One of the best guys I’ve ever met. You can’t go screwing that up just because you’re a little unsure of what you are. You’ve just gotta love that guy and your kids like it’s your damn job. Because it is.” He pats Bucky’s shoulder, nods towards the door and starts shuffling back towards his own house.

“It’s just two kids, right?” Bucky calls at his back. Clint laughs without turning around. Bucky sighs and stomps up the steps of the deck, in the back door. It opens onto a kitchen; cabinets, sink and stove wrapped around one corner, a fridge across from the door. A table shoved into a nook to the side, with a high chair against the wall and a booster seat on one of the four wooden chairs. Bucky glances around.

Steve, probably summoned by the sound of the screen door clattering, rounds the corner with a cordless landline phone (Who even has a landline anymore?) jammed between shoulder and ear. He stops when he sees Bucky, stalled mid-step with a stunned-blank look on his face.

“Sorry, could you hold on just a second?” he says, mouth turned towards the transmitting end of the phone. He finally jerks himself from the entranceway, sets the phone down on the counter as he rushes. At first, Bucky braces for a punch, but Steve gets up on his tiptoes and wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck. Bucky touches his waist, very briefly, but Steve doesn’t stick around long enough for Bucky to decide what to do with his arms. He lets go as soon as he grabbed on and retrieves the phone.

“Um, actually, that’s okay. He, um, just walked in the door. Sorry for the trouble. Thank you. Buh-bye.”  He ends the call and tosses the phone back down on the counter with an alarming clatter, swipes a thumb under both eyes. Still doesn’t like people to see him cry, obviously.

There’s silence for an agonizingly long amount of time, heavy and dense. Bucky feels like he’s suffocating and also so, so tired. He stares at Steve and says so quietly that he’s not sure it reaches Steve even three feet from him, “You let your hair grow out.” It was shaved at the sides the last time Bucky saw him. Now it curls around his ears and hides the tattoo Bucky knows is on the right side of his head, a white star on a bull’s eye. Bucky has a matching one on his left biceps. He’s thought about getting it removed a dozen times, but never got around to it.

Steve gives him a strange look. “Yeah. Ten _years_ ago.” He furrows his brows, crosses his arms and leans back against the counter. “Are you okay?”

Bucky nods, runs a hand through his hair. “Are you…angry?”

“No,” Steve says slowly. “No, Buck. I’m not angry. I passed angry when America started crying because both her daddies weren’t here to watch her open her presents. Now I’m livid.”

Bucky clears his throat. “Is…she alright? America?”

Steve sighs. “Yes. I told her something…I can’t even remember what. She and Peter are both napping. You need to figure out some way of making it up to them.” He falls back into quiet. Bucky has been in board rooms full of the richest people in the world. He has shaken the hand of Prince Harry of England and been blessed by two different popes. He once danced with Michelle Obama. Never has he felt so intimidated as he feels now; being stared down by 100-pound Steve Rogers, barefoot, wearing American flag boxers and a green-on-blue flannel that’s too big for him.

“Please say something,” Bucky says. The silence is killing him. He and Steve might have gotten into some blazing arguments, but the worst—the absolute worst—was Steve’s silence. Steve was—still is, apparently—a world-class expert at the silence game.

Apparently, Steve is feeling merciful. He uncrosses his arms and takes a step closer, hands on his hips. Bucky has to look down to meet his eyes, but he feels strangely like the one who’s looking up.

“Do you know what you put us through today?” Steve asks, deathly quiet. Bucky wishes he would yell. “You walk out of here at eight AM on Christmas morning and you don’t come back for hours? You don’t even take your damn cell phone with you? I had no idea where you were. I called all our friends. I called the police. And the state troopers. And every hospital in the Tri-State Area. I was on the phone with the damned _coroner’s office_ , Bucky!” He elbows his way past Bucky, throws himself into a dining table chair and leans forward, elbows on knees and head on hands. “All I could think about was…you in a ditch somewhere. Or that you were mugged and had no way to call for help. Or…or hell, that twenty years from now, our kids were gonna have all kinds of issues because Daddy left for milk on Christmas morning and never came back. I mean, Jesus…” he drags his fingers down his face. “What kind of a man leaves his family on Christmas morning, Bucky? _What kind of a man_?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, anguished. It’s as close to the truth as he can get. He doesn’t know what kind of a man he is anymore. “Please…don’t. Cry.”

Steve looks up, jaw set. “I’m not crying, jerk.”

“Sure looks like it, punk,” Bucky says, and he isn’t even sure why it comes out of his mouth.

“Don’t, Bucky. I’m not in the mood.” He sits up, rubs his eyes. “Where were you?”

Bucky’s jaw works soundlessly for a minute. He doesn’t know what Steve wants to hear. He says, “The city,” because he can’t think of anything but the truth.

Steve raises his eyebrows. “New York City?”

“…Yeah.”

“Well _why_?” Bucky doesn’t respond. “Bucky. _James_. Stop sulking in that corner like some moody teenager and tell me why you felt the need to go to New York City on Christmas Day.”

“Because!” Bucky says, holding his hand out and letting his shoulders slump. He doesn’t know what else to say but, “Because I live there!”

“Don’t start, Buck…”

“Look, Steve. I’m sorry, but you don’t understand. I woke up this morning, in this house, and that’s very strange, because last night I fell asleep in a penthouse apartment in Manhattan—“

“Bucky!”

“—and this is not my life. I’m not…I don’t have kids! I’m not ‘Daddy’. I’m not married to you; you’re not my husband—“

“Stop, Bucky. It’s not funny this time; it’s really not. I’m mad. I’m really mad and you acting like a fool isn’t going to change that.” He gets up from the chair, crosses the kitchen to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water. “I need to take my medicine. We’re not done talking.” He walks out of the room and Bucky hears a door somewhere else in the house slam closed. Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets and resolves to wait because there’s nothing else he can do. When his hand touches flimsy plastic, he remembers the bell Sam gave him.

He takes the plastic bag out of his pocket, pulls the bell out and stares at it for a moment. Sam said he’d need this and he hadn’t been forthcoming about why, but Bucky starts ringing it in the vague hope that it’ll bring him help or _something_ will happen. Maybe it’s some kind of emergency off switch and if he rings it this ‘glimpse’ or whatever is over.

It does nothing. He stands there ringing it for a solid minute and a half before he gives up, hands falling back down to his sides, chin dropping onto his chest.

America comes around the corner riding a bike with training wheels. It has the same princesses on it as the bell. She stops her bike in front of Bucky, looks up at him like he’s seen people look at skyscrapers, and says, “What’s that?”

“A bell,” he says slowly, holding it to his chest.

“Ooh,” she says, and reaches up. Curiously, he holds it out so she can look at it. She takes it out of his hand and rings it, nods and says, “I like it! Thanks, Daddy.”

“No, that’s mine!” he says as she rides off. “You can’t have it—“

“You missed everything.”

Bucky whips around. Steve has returned, leaning against the entrance to the kitchen that America didn’t just ride through.

“You spent six hours putting that bike together and you didn’t even get to see America’s face when she opened it. You missed the pancakes. You missed the kids falling asleep in the wrapping paper.” Steve looks down, gives a quiet chuckle, and then falls back into melancholy. “You missed Christmas, Buck, and there’s no way to make up for that. Peter’s too young to remember, but America’s always going to remember the Christmas that Daddy missed, you know? I’m really angry at you for that.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says again. It’s probably the fifth or sixth time that Steve has said how mad he is in the past fifteen minutes, and every single time has cut deep. Bucky doesn’t even know why; it’s not like he’s obligated to care. It’s not like this is his life.

Steve sighs, pushes away from the wall. “Whatever, we don’t have time for this. The party starts at five and I still have to make spinach dip and you…you need to go get yourself cleaned up.” Steve gives him an up-and-down that reeks of dissatisfaction. Bucky realizes that he must look like he’s just been through a blender.

“Party?” Bucky inquires. His voice sounds as dead as he feels.

“The party at the Dugans’,” Steve says.

“I’m not going to a party.”

“Oh my God,” Steve groans, like this is the last straw. For all Bucky knows, it is. Steve runs his hands through his hair, throws them up and splays his fingers wide. “What is _with_ you today? You look forward to this party all _year_!”

“Believe me, pal. A party is the last thing I need to be going to right now.”

Steve crosses his arms and purses his lips, narrows his eyes and taps his foot once-twice-thrice on the linoleum of the kitchen floor. Then he makes strange back-and-forth motion with his head, like he’s trying to nod and shake at the same time. “Okay. Fine, whatever. Do whatever you want; I don’t care anymore.” He drops his arms and crosses the kitchen, picks up the phone again. “I really don’t…”

“What’re you doing now?”

Pausing in his button jabbing, either looking through an internal phonebook or dialing a number by memory, Steve gives Bucky a sideways glare. “Well first I’m going to call Peggy and tell her that the Great Bucky Barnes Manhunt of Christmas 2014 is over. She and Gabe are driving around Paramus looking for flipped minivans.” He goes back to dialing. “Then I’m going to call Carol and tell her she doesn’t have to come over tonight.”

“Who’s Carol?” Bucky asks, perhaps against his better judgement.

With an expression like Bucky’s grown an extra head, Steve says, “Carol Danvers.” When Bucky still doesn’t react, he elaborates, “She’s five-foot-eleven, blonde hair, blue eyes—she’s been our babysitter for _five years_. Really, what’s with you today? Did you knock yourself on the head?”

“Oh, right, Carol,” Bucky says, nodding like any of this means anything to him. Then, “Wait—why doesn’t she have to come over tonight?”

Steve gives him a look like he’s being ridiculous or obtuse. “Because you’ll be here.”

Bucky flaps his mouth, tries not to let his eyes bug out of his head, and announces, “Never mind. I’ll be ready in ten.”

“For God’s sake…” Steve mutters, jamming the phone against his ear and shoulder. “Fine. Go get Peter up from his nap; if he sleeps any longer, he’ll never sleep tonight. And shower! Showering is a good thing!” He straightens up as the muffled, tinny sound of someone picking up the other end of the line and saying _hello?_ comes through the backside of the phone. “Hey, Pegs…Yeah, he’s fine. He walked in the door about twenty minutes ago; sorry I didn’t call you sooner…”

Bucky sighs, takes a deep breath, and heads for the stairs like a man bound for the gallows.

Getting the baby up is the easy part. He stands over the crib for about four minutes, trying to figure out what he’s supposed to do and hoping that he doesn’t _accidentally kill Steve’s baby Jesus Christ_ , and ends up standing there for so long that Peter wakes up by himself. Of course, when he sees his daddy’s face hovering above the bed (Or a guy who looks like his daddy, because Bucky might be essentially the same person as Peter’s daddy, but he is _not Peter’s daddy_ ) he reaches up and makes gurgling noises, some of which almost sound like words.

He’s…kind of cute. Utterly panic-inducing, just by being so small and fragile in Bucky’s vicinity, but…charming.

“Hey…baby…” he says, and even he isn’t sure if it’s an endearment or a form of address. He lifts Peter up under his armpits and holds him up at arms’ length. Peter squeals and kicks, obviously thinking this is some sort of game. He smells good—sweet, like a baby, and not like he needs a diaper change, so Bucky is relieved. He carries him, still at arms’ length, to a playpen set up in the corner. “We’re just gonna…put you right here…” He slowly lowers a still-giggling Peter into the pen and backs up to the door. “Alright…don’t…fall back asleep.” He stands there in the doorway for a moment, ramrod straight, and glances around the room. Typical nursery, full of pastels and stuffed animals. Nothing odd, aside from a jar on the dresser that…

Has a spider in it.

Bucky doesn’t know what to do about that. So he does nothing and hoofs it out of the room.

He opens two doors that are _not_ the bathroom—one is the bedroom he came out of earlier; the other is a closet—before he finds the bathroom. It’s immediately clear to him that this is not the bathroom he should be in. There is a children’s potty seat clamped over the toilet bowl, a two-stair stepladder in front of it, and approximately thirty bath toys in the bathtub, both in a net slung between the showerhead and the handrail, and on the bottom of the tub. The shampoo on the toiletries rack is _L’Oréal for Kids: No tears or tangles!_

“Why are you in the kids’ bathroom?”

Bucky glances over his shoulder. “Oh, uh…no reason. Say, why is there a spider in a jar in Peter’s room?”

A wide smile deepens the corners of Steve’s mouth. He laughs from somewhere in his chest. “America caught it and gave it to Peter for Christmas. I’m not worried; the lid is on pretty tight and it’s just a house spider. It’ll die in a few days.”

“Oh…okay.” This family is weird.

Steve butts his foot gently against Bucky’s calf. “C’mon, stop fooling around. We’re never on time for things.”

Bucky turns around and follows him into the bedroom, and only then does he realize that there’s an en-suite. “Oh. So that’s where that is.”

“That’s where what is?” Steve asks. He stands at the end of the bed and pulls the flannel over his head, folds it and sets it on the foot of the bed. He’s as fine-boned and milky pale as Bucky remembers, only now he can’t quite count every rib, and his hipbones don’t poke out quite so far. Bucky thinks it’s a good thing. There is also a bruise over one of his lower ribs. It takes Bucky a moment to realize that it’s a lovebite. He blushes and looks away.

“Oh, nothing,” Bucky mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. He inches towards the bathroom. “I’m gonna…take a shower now.”

“Give me a second and I’ll get in with you,” Steve says, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers.

“No!” Bucky blurts, far too loud. Steve jumps and looks at him like he’s been slapped. Bucky clears his throat. “I mean, it’s just that…if you do that, we’ll never get to the party on time.” He tries, and probably fails, to give Steve a suggestive look. Steve looks unimpressed. Right. He’s still angry. Bucky retries: “Besides, if we’re both in the shower, who’ll watch the kids?”

Steve shrugs. “We could just bring the baby monitor into the bathroom, I mean, we’ve done it before. But I suppose you’re right. I’ll go make the dip while you’re in the shower.” He unfolds the flannel and puts it back on. The longer Bucky looks at it, the clearer it becomes that the flannel does not belong to Steve. Or, at least, it did not start off belonging to him. It makes Bucky want to die.

Apparently, in this universe, he’s the kind of guy who wears flannel. _God strike me down._

“Don’t be all day about showering,” Steve says, on his way out the door. “Your sudden modesty better not be an excuse to hog all the hot water.”

“Heh,” Bucky forces out. Steve goes around the corner.

He glances around the room, familiarizing himself with it thoroughly so that he doesn’t make a fool out of himself again. He’s going to have to avoid that if he doesn’t want everyone to think he’s nuts. Hopefully, this _glimpse_ will end with him back in his own apartment, and not in a padded room. He’s still not entirely sure he doesn’t _belong_ in one, what with how the last twelve hours of his life have played out, but he certainly doesn’t want to be put in one either way.

It takes him a moment to locate the closet. It’s behind the door to the hallway; a white, slated bi-fold deal. Inside, there is a singular row of clothing, and half of it is _denim_. Bucky stares at it incredulously. Does he—does _Steve_ —not own a single pair of slacks? He rifles through the entire rack, finds a small horde of polo shirts, T-shirts, hooded sweatshirts and knit sweaters, as well as enough denim to crush a man. He finds exactly two pairs of slacks, both of which are obviously Steve’s. He drags a hand down his face. What kind of lives do these people lead? Where does Steve work that he can wear blue jeans every day? Hell, where does _Bucky_ work?

He doesn’t realize he’s being watched until he feels a tug on his shirt. He looks down. America stares back up at him. He says, “…Hello?”

America blinks at him owlishly for five seconds, takes two huge steps back, and runs out of the room with her curtain of curly black hair swaying wildly behind her. It’s half as long as she is tall. Now he realizes why the _no tear_ shampoo is needed. That’s a lot of hair.

“Okay…” Bucky mutters, and turns back to his limited choice of clothing.

Eventually, he picks a dark blue turtle neck and a pair of black jeans. Still denim, but at least not blue jeans. If it’s too casual, Steve will complain. He’s never been quiet about things like that. Doesn’t seem to have changed that much in fifteen years, either. Besides, if a neighborhood Christmas party is much more formal than this, they’re definitely trying too hard. Bucky goes to take a shower, and doesn’t think about it anymore. He’s already thinking too much already.

In the end, Steve doesn’t object. When Bucky comes out of the shower, he goes in, and hops down the stairs twenty minutes later in a red cable-knit and, surprise surprise, a pair of blue jeans. They’re dark wash and hug him nicely. Bucky might stare for a bit too long as Steve greets the babysitter, who’s tall and pretty and not much younger than the women Bucky typically beds nowadays, but she looks at him with nothing but respect and calls both of them _Mr. Barnes_. It’s surreal.

“We shouldn’t be back too late,” Steve says, as he wraps a scarf around his neck—more flannel, Christ—and then pulls on a tan parka that seems to be made of literally nothing but pockets. “Ten at the latest. They both had a nap earlier, so they might be hard to put down, but they’ve had a long day, so they might just crash before bedtime. Either way, make sure they’re both in bed by nine. I have to be at the studio all next week, so they’ll have to be up at six so Bucky can drive them to daycare on the way to work.”

Carol keeps nodding earnestly, like this means anything to her. Bucky certainly hopes it does, because it’s utter gibberish to him.

“Got it,” Carol says. She seems honest enough.

“Thanks, Carol,” Steve says, “for making yourself available on Christmas.”

With a smile, Carol says, “Not a problem, Mr. Barnes. My family always does Christmas dinner really early, so I’m not missing anything.”

“Alright,” Steve says, but on the way down the front steps, he mumbles to Bucky, “I’m gonna give her an extra twenty bucks when I pay her tonight. I’m sure there are other things she’d like to be doing than watching our kids, and this isn’t the first time she’s come through for us like this. She deserves it.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, because he doesn’t have anything else to say to that.

Steve grabs his hand as they walk straight past the car. Bucky lets him, and begins the tedious task of trying to follow someone while making it look like you’re walking at their side. He doesn’t know where they’re going, but he doesn’t mind as much as he should. Steve’s hand is warm.

* * *

The door is opened by the woman whom Bucky first spoke to when he saw her in a purple parka on the side of the road this morning. Inwardly, he bemoans the turn of events.

“James,” she says warmly, and then noticeably colder: “Steve.” Bucky wonders if he should address that, let loose with some kind of _lay off my guy_ machismo. Steve doesn’t seem to need it though; he smiles this strange, cold smile that’s curved weird at the corners. Bucky’s never seen it before, isn’t sure he ever wants to see it again. It’s properly disconcerting, and not just to him; the woman wanders away into the house, muttering, “I’ll tell Tim you’re here.”

“Hey…should I…?”

“Just leave it,” Steve mutters, as he unwinds the scarf from his neck and shakes the snow out of his hair. “We’ve talked about this; as long as everything remains one-sided, I don’t care what Yelena does.” He takes off his coat, and holds out his hand for Bucky’s. Both coats draped over one arm and the spinach dip in the other, he wanders into the house and out of sight. Bucky watches him go with a dawning sensation of doom, and tries to make himself small.

Within moments, everyone seems to know he’s there. He’s beckoned into the living room by calls of _Bucky_ and _James_ and, strangely enough, _Sarge_. He wouldn’t think they were talking to him but one guy, a shorter man with tan skin and almond-shaped eyes, thumps a hand on his chest as he passes and says, “Hey, Sarge.”

He wonders if he’s ever not going to be confused again.

“Hey there, Buck,” says a man, approaching him in the archway between the living room and kitchen, clamping an enormous hand on his shoulder. He has a truly impressive mustache, and Bucky can’t help but stare at it. When the guy notices, he laughs. “Like what I did with the ‘stache? Yeah, I trimmed it closer than normal. Lena says it makes me look five years younger.”

“It used to be bigger?” Bucky asks, incredulously. The guy just laughs again and ushers him into the house with a hand at his shoulders. Bucky, figuring he should say something halfway normal, ventures, “Steve went to go put the coats somewhere.”

“Oh, we’re just piling them all on the twins’ beds like usual,” he says. Clearly, he is the owner of the house, which probably makes him the husband of the woman who answered the door, which would make him ‘Tim’.

Even as Bucky comes to this conjecture, though, another man approaches and smiles at the both of them, says, “Dum Dum, Sergeant,” and gives Bucky a mock-salute. What is it with this _sergeant_ thing?

Tim—Dum Dum?—grins. “Hey, Monty. Been a few years since you came to my little shindig.”

“Yeah, well…you know how it is. One year we’re at the wife’s mum’s, the next year we’re at mine. They start to squabble and whinge if we don’t make the rounds at least every two years.” He has a British accent, muted like he’s lived in the states for awhile, but it’s there. Bucky spent enough time around Peggy, once upon a time, to know a public school British accent when he hears it. He wonders if they, Peggy and this guy, know each other.

“Must be rough,” Tim/Dum Dum says, with a chuckle. He brings a glass of something amber to his lips and sips from it. Bucky wonders where he got it, and if there’s more where that came from because _damn_ does he need a drink. “My folks are both retired; spend the entire damn winter in Florida. They’re content if they get a Christmas card and a Skype call from the boys.” He grins between the two of them. “Ma always says she did her time with New York winters, not even Christmas can make her drag herself back up here.”

Monty chuckles, and Bucky lets out a dry bark of laughter or two, because he feels like he should. Then he says, “I wouldn’t know about that, I guess,” and things get awkward. Tim and Monty exchange glances, like they’re not exactly sure where to go with that.

Then Steve arrives, like some beacon of spirit and good cheer with two glasses of eggnog. He hands one to Bucky, says, “Buck, when we got married, we established two things: No socks in bed, and orphan jokes are tasteless. Tell me, why are you violating our rules?”

Just like that, the tension lifts and people are laughing. Bucky is beginning to remember just how magical Steve can be.

“Please tell me that you put something in this,” Bucky mumbles, looking into the cup of eggnog.

“Of course,” Steve says, and Bucky’s so grateful for the booze that he feels like he could kiss Steve. Then he thinks about it for a second and figures that’s something he probably _would_ do, so he bends slightly to kiss his cheek; soft and warm, and he smells like sandalwood. Steve smiles but bats him away. “Stop. Don’t be all sweet on me just because you’re in the doghouse.”

Tim and Monty chorus _oohs_ like they’re in fifth grade. Bucky feels the urge to roll his eyes, but also the urge to smirk. He does both, because he’s starting to remember what this is. The easy camaraderie that arises between people who have interpersonal relationships and not just professional ones. It’s been a very long time since Bucky has been surrounded by people whom he can honestly call friends. At the same time, he knows what this is. These people are not _his_ friends; Steve is not _his_ husband.

They’re a part of a different world. One where he doesn’t belong.

“What earned our illustrious sergeant a stint in the doghouse, Captain?” Monty inquires. Well, at least Steve gets a dumbass nickname too.

“Oh, you didn’t hear?” Dum Dum asks. “Bucky did a runner this morning.”

“It…it wasn’t a runner,” Bucky defends, perhaps a little too forceful, because he knows what that implies. He grew up in Brooklyn, just like it sounds this guy did. He heard the grandmothers gossiping on their stoops, _Did you hear about Sarah Turner’s husband? He did a runner, he did. She’s pregnant, too. Terrible, just terrible._ “I just had to do something.”

“In Manhattan,” Steve adds, and he’s alternating between this really unimpressed, narrow-eyed thing which he aims at Bucky, and a look that’s obviously meant to coerce commiseration from the other two. “God knows what he was doing. He still won’t tell me.”

“You know it ain’t like that,” Bucky says, because he doesn’t want to make trouble for the guy who’s gonna step back into these shoes after Bucky goes back to where he belongs; doesn’t want Steve to think any funny business is going on. Bucky doesn’t know how his other self feels about Steve—the marriage may be going sour, for all he knows—but he’s going to keep operating on the assumption that everything is good between them until given evidence to the contrary.

Steve gives him an earnest look, a certain shimmer in his eyes that says Bucky’s assumption was right. It’s the look of a man who loves and knows he’s loved in return. Steve and his Bucky are still in love.

“Yeah,” Steve says softly, “I know.”

Bucky stares at him for a long minute, unsure what to say. There’s a sensation in his stomach that’s foreign to him, but at the same time something says he should recognize the feeling. It’s residuals, Bucky thinks, of the relationship he once shared with this man. They broke up while he was in Germany; he never really got closure on the whole thing. The most closure he ever got was a somber-faced Peggy showing up on his doorstep with an armful of CDs.

Speaking of Peggy, she makes her way over with a flute of sparkling wine in one long, elegant, manicured hand. Gabe follows her with a can of beer. They’re both holding their drinks in their left hands, and Bucky takes the chance to do a split-second investigation, finds exactly what he’s looking for. Matching silver bands on their ring fingers.

So. He and Steve got married and, at some point within the last fourteen years, so had Peggy. Good for her.

“Hey, Pegs,” Steve says, and hugs her.

“Hello, love,” she says, and then pulls away and moves onto Bucky. She smells like the same perfume he remembers her wearing fourteen years ago. “Hello, Bucky.”

“Hey, Peggy,” he says, and doesn’t even try to disguise the sheepish tone of his voice. “Sorry about…earlier. I dunno what got into me. I didn’t mean to make you guys worry.”

“It’s alright,” Peggy assures. Pulls back and leaves her hands on his arms as she adds, “Well, it’s not _alright_ , but as long as you’re in one piece, everything will sort itself out, I’m sure.” Her accent, now that he has the time and patience to listen, is now faded as well. When Buck knew her, she was a recent immigrant, moved to New York to go to NYU. That’s where they all met.

Gabe steps into the spot that Peggy vacates, and it seems almost natural to slap their hands together and bump their chests, dropping pats on each other’s backs. Bucky knows that it’s been a long time since he _hung out_ , but he hasn’t forgotten how to be a man among men, so to say. He knows how to interact convincingly; he knows how to behave so that they don’t ask questions.

“So,” Gabe says, glancing between Steve and Bucky. “Cap, Sarge? Are we ready for the Howling Commandos’ triumphant return? Less than a month until the big day.”

“You mean until the ladies of the SSR claim the trophy for the fourth year in a row?” Peggy asks, perfectly-shaped eyebrows raised in challenge. “Face it, boys. That trophy won’t be yours again for many years to come.”

“Sorry, what?” Bucky asks, and everyone laughs because…well yeah, he can tell why they laugh, but that doesn’t answer the question.

“Don’t worry boys,” Steve says, and taps the side of his nose. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

They all raise a ruckus, and Bucky doesn’t even know what’s happening, but he whoops along with them. Yet another thing he’s forgotten—how quickly a group hivemind can establish itself. It could also be because Steve put something serious in the eggnog and he’s currently holding an empty glass, but that’s just a possibility.

“I’m gonna go get some more,” Bucky says, raising his glass and without saying anything Steve holds out his own. Bucky takes it after a moment, nods to himself, and walks away. So far, so good. Nobody seems to think he’s nuts. Yet.

Before he can reach the punch bowl full of eggnog (Sitting on a table surrounded by drinks of all colors and flavors and alcohol contents) he is intercepted. There she is again, that blonde woman, Tim-Dum Dum’s wife (Yelena? Lena? He’s really got to get a straight answer on some of these names) and she’s got a plate with baked cheese puffs on it. He’s been to enough house parties thrown by underlings (and even some higher-ups) where the host’s idea of a fancy meal was frozen hors d’oeuvres served with box wine. He recognizes them.

“James,” she says again, and she has some accent that he can’t quite put a finger on; it curls on the vowel in his name. “There you are. Would you like a cheese puff?”

“Uh—no, I’m—“

“Come on now,” she says, picks up a puff and holds it close to his mouth. “You’ll have your hands on them the second I put them down…” She’s talking in this deep, soft voice that’s similar enough to a bedroom voice that it causes some modicum of an instinctive reaction in him, but mostly he just wants her to get her hand out of his face. He opens his mouth to ask her to do just that, but she takes the opportunity to shove the entire thing in his mouth.

He grimaces. His eyes water. It tastes like these things have been in the bottom of some freezer for the past decade.

“Good?” She coos.

“Mmm,” he hums, and it may or may not be intended as a cry for help, but Yelena seems satisfied that he’s enjoying himself.

“Good,” she says again, and wipes a crumb off his chin. Then she licks it off her own finger. He stares at her, dumbfounded. “I’ll just go put these on the buffet table. Feel free to grab more.” She saunters away, and Bucky goes looking for a fucking bathroom, because he refuses to swallow this stuff and it’s possible he’s going to throw up if he keeps it in his mouth for much longer.

Thankfully this house is not a two-story maze of a nightmare like the one that is apparently his own. It’s a ranch style with two bedrooms and a relatively open floor plan. He finds the bathroom at the end of the hall, and closes the door behind him so that he can spit into the toilet (And flush with extreme prejudice) without the rest of the party judging him. He watches it go, and looks up at himself in the mirror. He looks better than he did this morning, at least; clean shaven, with his hair combed back. Not slicked, because apparently his other self slopped buying gel around the time the rest of his life ended, but such things cannot be helped. He wonders if his dear-in-the-headlights expression is something he’s been wearing all night, and if so, if it’s something others can notice, or just himself.

The party continues on outside the door as he leans against the sink and stares at himself in the mirror. He drowns it out and meets his own blue eyes, mutters, “You poor, miserable bastard.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a bottle of Listerine. He takes a swig to get the taste of freezer burned cheese puff out of his mouth before he walks out of the bathroom. Digs his hand into his pocket and feels his phone—which has a cracked screen and an old operating system but is at least functional—and thinks for a second…and then turns into the first unoccupied room he comes to, the kids’ room where all the coats are piled, and sits on one mound of fake fur and nylon and wool to dial a number from memory.

“Hello, can I speak to Mister Stark, please? Yes, I know what day it is. Tell him it’s James Barnes.”

He doesn’t know what makes him do it, because according to Sam, no one from his ‘other’ life will know him in this one, but he still has to try. Maybe he _is_ insane. Isn’t the definition of insanity something like _Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result_?

Of course, it doesn’t work. Ten minutes later he’s yelling at some poor woman whom he’s probably never even met.

“ _What do you_ mean _he won’t come to the phone? Do you know how much money I’ve made for that sonuvabitch in the past eight years?!_ ”

The woman hangs up then. If Bucky were thinking clearly, he wouldn’t blame her. As it is, he throws his phone to the floor and drops his head into his hands, fisting into his own hair. This is, obviously, the moment that Steve walks in. Because life sucks. Or, this one does.

“Bucky?” he asks. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, a bit too quick and a bit too forceful. “Yeah, I’m fine. You need something?”

“No,” Steve assures. He comes into the room and sits by Bucky. The pile of down-stuffed coats beneath him wheezes under his weight. “I just saw Yelena accost you.” He looks up from under his lashes and grins. “You know, her cheese puffs aren’t real.”

Bucky lets himself snort, and smirks. “Yeah. I figured.”

Steve drops a hand onto his knee and kisses his cheek, and the warm sensation rises from Bucky’s stomach to his chest once again. “You sure you’re okay?”

Another nod. “Yeah. I’m fine. Go back out; I’ll be back in a minute.”

Steve stares at him, hard, for several beats of silence before he nods and gets back up. “Alright.”

Bucky sighs and waits until he leaves the room to drop his head back into his hands.

* * *

Carol has fallen asleep on the couch, and apologizes for a straight six minutes when Steve wakes her up. Bucky hovers awkwardly in the corner, staying out of it as much as possible. Steve assures Carol that it’s fine, that as long as she had the baby monitor with her, dropping off for a few minutes isn’t a problem. He hands her the money and thanks her again, then heads up the stairs to check on the kids. Carol pulls on her coat at the door, and smiles sleepily at Bucky.

“Goodnight, Mr. Barnes,” she says, as she opens the door. It’s cold outside, and Bucky can feel it from halfway across the room. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” he mumbles, and watches her go down the walkway and up the sidewalk in the dim light of the front porch. When she’s gone, and the automatic light goes out again, he drops onto the couch in the dark and drops his head against the back. He’s terrifically tired. His limbs feel heavy, like they might protest to any further activity. He closes his eyes and thinks, for a second, that he would be happy to die on this couch if it meant he didn’t have to move another inch.

Then the dog scampers in and puts her front paws on his lap and stares at him, panting happily through a doggy-grin.

Bucky groans, “No. Down,” and tries to push her away. She obviously thinks they’re playing and responds to him with a happy bark. He tries to cover her muzzle with just his hand. “Shh! _Shut up_! Go away!”

She barks again. Upstairs and through the baby monitor still on the coffee table, the baby cries out.

“Look what you _did_ ,” he snaps at her, angry enough to make her put all four paws on the ground again, pull her overlong tongue back into her head and droop her ears. “Yeah, _feel bad_.”

On the baby monitor, he hears Steve murmur, “Shh, Peter. It’s okay. It’s just Liberty, she’s just excited. Shh, sweetheart.” There’s silence from Steve for a moment, just the fussing of the baby, and when Steve speaks again it must be directly into the speaker. “ _Bucky_. Go walk Liberty before she wakes the whole block.”

“Seriously?” Bucky mutters to himself, grimacing at the overly happy dog-face staring at him. She must know the word ‘walk’, because her ears perk right back up.

“Yes, Bucky, seriously. She’s your dog.” Apparently, this particular model of baby monitor works both ways.

“No, she’s not,” Bucky replies, before he can stop himself. Because it’s true and he aches all over and it’s nineteen degrees outside and _he is not going to walk this damn dog_.

“You’re right,” Steve says, and Bucky experiences a split second of relief before Steve continues, “She’s the kids’ dog. Hey, Peter, go walk the dog.” Peter simply continues to whimper. “Sorry, Buck, but you promised when you got her for them that you’d take care of her until they were old enough.”

“Yeah, okay…whatever.” Bucky gets off the sofa, muscles aching in protest, and glances around for a leash. “Where’s the damn leash?”

“Did you check by the door?”

That’s where it is, of course. It’s about ten feet long, blue with little American flags on it. On closer examination, it matches her collar. Steve obviously never got over his red-white-and-blue obsession. Bucky guesses it’s excusable, when you’re born on the Fourth of July.

“I’d come with you,” Steve says, from the landing halfway up the steps. He’s got Peter on his hip, fussing softly into his neck. “But Carol already went home, and you know what cold weather does to my asthma.”

Bucky wilts and nods. Admittedly, he’d forgotten about Steve’s asthma. Now that he does, he remembers Steve being very blasé about the whole thing back in college; downright neglectful about it at times. He would forget his inhaler at home more often than not, even though he had about three different doctors breathing down his neck, telling him to take it everywhere. Bucky got into the habit of shoving it into a coat pocket or a flap on his bag. With the memories all coming back to him, Bucky wants to accuse Steve of using his asthma as leverage to stay inside where it’s warm and cozy. He doesn’t, though. For all he knows, Steve’s gone and gotten himself a sense of self-preservation.

One can only hope.

The dog knows what’s coming as soon as the leash is clipped onto her collar, and she practically _skips_ out the door when Bucky opens it. Steve says something about leaving the door unlocked, and Bucky does so. It’s stupidly cold outside. He walks the dog for half a block before he starts to feel like he’s going to turn into a human popsicle. He wonders if Sam would call the whole thing off if Bucky were in danger of death by hypothermia, or if he would just let Bucky freeze in a snow bank like the Similaun Man.

“I’m gonna die here,” he tells the dog, matter-of-factly. He needs to vent to someone, and the dog seems like the best candidate. Besides, there’s something almost Big Brother is Watching about this whole situation and he thinks that somewhere, Sam is listening. Laughing at his misery. “Because I don’t know _what_ about this fucked-up alternate universe is something I _need_.”

The only response he gets from the dog is the continued jingling of her tags.

“You know,” Bucky says, after she sniffs two trees, the edge of someone’s front lawn and a garden gnome, but fails to do her business at any of them, “if you would take a crap sometime in the next _century_ , that would be great. You’d really be doing me a favor, because then we could go back home, where it’s warm and I can sleep.” He pauses, and considers. “That is, if I can even remember the way home. You know it, don’t you girl?”

Liberty must be feeling merciful. She squats down at that point and Bucky turns away—to give her some privacy, even if he’s pretty sure she would have no problem with an audience—only to realize that he has no way to carry the product of Liberty’s activities to a trash can. He glances back and forth, assures that no one is watching and he cannot be connected to the crime that leaving dog shit in a public place might be for all he knows—this seems like the kind of neighborhood that has a homeowners’ association, or whatever—and drags Liberty off back to the house as soon as she’s done.

The house is dark. When he left, there was a faint light seeping down the stairs from the master bedroom door, but now the only light in the entire house is coming from a safety light on the stairs, which illuminates the staircase but not much else. He lets Liberty off her leash and watches as she trots off in the direction of the mudroom, where Bucky noticed her bed sitting earlier.

He wanders into the living room and collapses onto the couch, intending to get up in a minute and take off his shoes, go upstairs and figure out what kind of sleepware options he has, and probably spend a long, awkward night trying not to end up wrapped around Steve, or with Steve wrapped around himself.

When he’s next aware of himself, the clock on the wall reads 2:30 and Steve is standing over him, in the same flannel as yesterday but different boxers—these ones are solid red and don’t fit as loosely. Bucky furrows his brows at him, confused as to what’s going on. Steve murmurs, “You know I don’t like it when you sleep on the couch. America freaks out when we don’t sleep in the same bed.”

“I, uh, didn’t mean to,” Bucky mumbles, looking down at himself. He’s still in his coat which, now that he thinks about it, has left him feeling like he’s roasting alive. He shucks it off once the realization hits and finds immediate relief in the slightly-chilly air circulating around the living room.

There’s softness in Steve’s expression when he says, “Yeah, I know. But I figured that if you woke up in the morning and realized that I let you sleep all night on the couch, you’d start looking like even more of a kicked puppy.”

“I don’t look like a kicked puppy,” Bucky mutters, genuinely insulted. He wants to tell Steve that he’s talking to the man known as the Wall Street Winter Soldier, but something tells him that would not go down well.

Steve smiles and bends to look into his eyes. He has a pair of glasses sitting low on his nose. Bucky figures he was wearing contacts earlier, but he likes the glasses. It reminds him a lot of college. “Sure looks like it, jerk.”

Bucky rubs his eyes and swallows a yawn, drags a hand through his hair. He looks up at Steve through his lashes, hand still rubbing the back of his head and mumbles, “You still angry?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, and straightens up. “But…I don’t sleep too good without you anymore. So come to bed.” He turns around and walks back up the stairs, but he stops on the first landing and watches Bucky hang up his coat and toe off his shoes. Bucky climbs the first seven steps in lurching, half-asleep movements, and climbs the rest with Steve at his side.

He hardly has the facilities to think about wardrobe at that point, so he shucks the turtleneck and the jeans and drops them in the hamper in the corner, finds the discarded noxious orange sweatpants from earlier and pulls them on. He slides into bed with no concern given for a shirt and turns onto his right side, because he always sleeps on his right side. In his own bed, it positions him so that he can immediately grab his cell phone off the side table should it ring during the night. In this strange world, he just does it because it’s a habit. If Steve finds it strange, he doesn’t mention it. Just slides under the blankets behind Bucky and drapes an arm over his waist, tucks the cold point of his nose against the back of Bucky’s neck. Bucky can’t bring himself to care.

He falls asleep in what feels like seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for y'all.  
> I debated for a long time about who to cast as the interloping woman trope, and if I was even going to include it because it's used and sad and I hate it. Of course the movie I'm basing this off of was a Nic Cage movie made in 2000, so.  
> Anyway I decided on Yelena because it ties into something that happens later. I also love Dum Dum Dugan with all my heart and soul, as I love all the commandos, so please do not hate me for the somewhat less favorable portrayal of him that will creep up later in the story.  
> Thank you for reading. The next chapter will be posted on the normal day of Friday.  
> As always, you can follow me on Tumblr if that's your thing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor sexual content in this chapter that might be considered very, very minor dub-con. Spoilers are at the end of the chapter if you need them.

Peter’s wailing through the baby monitor wakes him up far too early the next morning. It’s still dark outside, and he glances at the clock on the nightstand to see that it’s 5:58. A measly three and a half hours since he actually, legitimately got in bed. He rolls onto his back and, after staring at the ceiling and heaving a sigh, sits up. Buries his head in his hands because he feels like shit.

(Mostly because he didn’t get enough sleep and because he still hurts from running halfway around Manhattan yesterday but also because, as he was waking up, there was a split-second between becoming conscious and hearing Peter crying where he thought that it was all a bad dream, and to be let down like that is almost more than he can handle.)

Music is playing loudly from the bathroom. Underneath it, the steady thunder of water hitting fiberglass. Steve is showering. Bucky gets up and knocks on the door, wincing every time Peter lets out a particularly powerful shriek.

“Hey,” he says, not loudly enough to be heard through the door and above the music and water. He opens the bathroom door. Steve is just a blur of pink skin with a blob of blonde on top through the clouded shower door. Louder, he repeats, “Hey.”

All he gets in response is Steve singing, loudly and off-key: “ _So we’re gonna be forever, or it’s gonna go down in flames…”_

“Hey!”

“ _You can tell me when it’s over if the high was worth the pain—“_

“HEY.”

Steve wrenches the shower door open. Bucky isn’t expecting this, has no way to be prepared for the five-foot-four stretch of wet, naked skin that pops out at him. Bucky looks quickly at the floor—but he’s only human, and he catches glances on the way down: Steve’s hair all shampooed but unrinsed; water dripping off his square jaw, rivulets coursing past pink nipples; the lovebite he noticed yesterday which is fading from purple to red; dark hair below Steve’s bellybutton and between his legs—

“What?” Steve demands, complete nonchalance aside from the fact that he clearly objects to being yelled at through a shower door.

“The…baby’s crying…” Bucky mumbles at the floor.

“Okay,” Steve says, like he doesn’t get the point of Bucky’s words. Bucky glances at him with brows furrowed. Steve smirks and shakes his head. “I told you, Buck. You’ve got the kids all week; I have to be in the studio. There are some things I just can’t do from home, and painting on ten-foot tall canvases is one of them. Try to get them to daycare on time, alright?” With that, he closes the door to the shower again. “ _Got a long list of ex-lovers, they’ll tell you I’m insane…_ ”

Bucky, knowing a dismissal when he experiences one, closes the door.

The nursery is next door to the master bedroom, which Bucky figures is strategic placement. When he comes in the door, America is standing with her face pressed against the bars of her brother’s crib. She looks up at Bucky’s entrance and says, “He’s been crying forever.” She looks back at Peter, reaches a small hand through the bars. “He probably needs to be changed.”

“Dear God,” Bucky whispers.

Strangely enough, America says, “It’s okay; it’s not hard,” and wanders away from the crib to climb up onto a rocking chair in the corner. She’s in a pair of footy pajamas with frogs on them, and folds her legs with that childlike lack of grace that Bucky has to admit he finds somewhat endearing.

Bucky carefully approaches Peter and—yeah, a change is definitely what he needs. Bucky wrinkles his nose and reaches down into the crib, picks Peter up and carries him (Once again, at arm’s length) to the changing table on the other side of the room. America watches from her perch, and Bucky feels strangely exposed under her gaze—it’s like she knows everything. He sets Peter down on the changing table and stares helplessly at the diaper, wondering how to get it off. Wishing babies came with instruction manuals. Peter is still crying.

“Give him the spiders,” America says sagely from the rocker, “it’ll make him stop crying.”

Bucky’s head snaps up. “Spiders?” All he can think about is that spider in the jar.

America gets up from the rocker and rummages around in a drawer next to the crib for a moment, comes up with a keychain bearing what Bucky guesses are supposed to be a very child-friendly version of spiders. They’re almost perfectly round, with four smaller spheres on each side of their bodies. One entire half of the main body dominated by white circles surrounding black circles intended to be the spiders’ eyes. America gets up on her tiptoes and hands them directly to Peter, who takes them and magically stops whimpering.

“Now all you have to do to change him is take the diaper off and wipe his butt and power him and put a new diaper on,” America says. She gets up on her tiptoes again, pushes a half-empty box of Huggies resting on the end of the changing table towards him. “First you gotta put the clean diaper under his butt so the changing table doesn’t get dirty.” Bucky stares at her for a moment, wondering why she’s helping him with this. Wondering how she knows he needs help. America raises her eyebrows expectantly. “Well?”

“Uh…” Bucky turns his attention back to Peter, now gnawing happily on one of the spiders’ heads. The new diaper folds open easily, and he lifts Peter by both feet. He’s seen this part, at least, on television shows or in person; has watched other guys change their kids in public restrooms. He slides the new diaper underneath and grips the tabs of the diaper still on the baby. Carefully pulls them off (“Fold them over,” America says, “so then they won’t stick to him.”) and pulls down the front of the diaper.

“Jesus fu—“ He looks away, finds himself looking directly into America’s eyes, clamps his teeth over his lips. “Fudge.”

America stares back at him, unimpressed. She points at a point below his hip and behind him, and he turns around to see what looks like a tall, thin trashcan with a flip lid. She says, “You put the diaper in there.”

“Say, how d’you know this stuff?” Bucky mumbles, as he picks up the diaper by two fingers and drops it into the trash can. He pushes it in with jerky, stabbing movements like he’s facing off with a rabid dog. Stares at the trash can after he closes it, unsure if it’ll be able to contain the smell.

“My daddies taught me how to change a diaper so that I can do it on my baby dolls,” America informs him. She reaches into a container of baby wipes next to the diaper box, pulls one out and hands it over.

“Oh,” Bucky mumbles. It's a moment before he remembers that he’s supposed to be one of her daddies. If America is talking about her daddies in the third person, then…

“You’re not really my daddy, are you?” America mumbles.

“Um,” he mumbles as he carefully, apprehensively wipes Peter’s bottom. Peter coos and looks up at him with as much trust as a baby can put into their expression. It’s clear that he has no reservations about who Bucky is. America is, apparently, one hell of a smart kid. He plays with the idea of lying to her but knows he shouldn’t. That it wouldn’t go over well, and that it would only confuse her more if he continued trying to be something he’s not. Finally he answers, “No…no, I’m not. I…I work on Wall Street, and I live in Manhattan, in a building with a doorman. This isn’t my life…this is just a glimpse.”

America hands him the baby powder and mumbles, “So how’d you get here?”

“Some guy named Sam dropped me here without telling me what I’m supposed to do,” Bucky mumbles. He isn’t sure if she believes him, but if anyone is going to buy into something that sounds as fantastical as this it’s a kid.

“Is he an alien?” America inquires. She watches with intelligence and vigilance—probably to make sure this madman doesn’t damage her baby brother.

“Maybe,” Bucky mumbles. He pulls up the top of the diaper, holds it against Peter’s belly as he does the tape up.

America wanders away for a moment and returns with a stool, which she pushes until it almost butts against Bucky’s knees then climbs up to the top. It brings her eyelevel with Bucky’s shoulder and within arm’s reach of his face. She presses her small hands into either of his cheeks, pulls on his earlobes, squeezes his nose, touches his hair.

“Um…what’re you doing?” he mumbles as she pulls at his lip.

“Checking your human suit for mistakes,” she explains, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. She pulls her hands back, tilts her head to the side. “They did a really good job. You look just like him.”

“Ah.”

“Where’s my real daddy?” she inquires.

“Um…I don’t know,” he admits, and when America’s lips wobble just slightly, he rushes to explain, “But he loves you very, very much, and wherever he is, he’ll come back, okay? I promise. He’ll be back very, very soon.” He glances down at Peter, who gives him a toothless grin around one of the spiders, meaty little legs waving in the air. “So, uh, don’t cry, please. Because I don’t think I could deal with that right now.”

America wrinkles her nose and says, “I wasn’t crying,” and yeah; she’s definitely Steve’s child.

“Okay,” he says, because he knows from experience that there is no arguing with that statement.

They stand in quiet for a moment, Bucky shirtless in pajama bottoms and America standing on a stool in frog footie pajamas, Peter cooing on the table, happy now that he’s been changed. Then America asks, “Do you like kids?” and Bucky has to glance off into the middle distance, consider that question in his head.

“I suppose,” he says, because America and Peter are the first kids he’s really ever been exposed to for more than a few minutes, and they’re alright. “I like you two.”

“Can you make chocolate milk? Or cookies? Daddy makes the best cookies.”

“Yes on the cookies,” Bucky says, because he’s a single man and has been for most of his adult life and he’d had to learn how to cook for himself. After awhile, the money at his disposal meant that he could afford to cook (and learn _to_ cook) well. “Uh, maybe on the chocolate milk. But I can learn.”

America eyes him suspiciously for a moment then asks, “Are you gonna kidnap me and my brother and probe us and implant stuff in us or scoop out our brains and—“

“No! Geez! I won’t do any of that!” Bucky’s hands flail by his head, wanting to cover his ears or America’s mouth or just run away. What an imagination, honestly. “I’m just gonna…y’know, stick around until Sam decides I’ve learned my lesson and sends me back. I’m not gonna _eat your brains_.”

For a moment, America just stares at him, still sizing him up. Then she smiles slowly, and holds out her hand. Hesitantly, he shakes it. She says, “Welcome to Earth.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, earnestly as he can. “So, uh…now that we’ve established that I’m not exactly from around here, could you, uh…tell me where you guys go to daycare? Or where I work?”

* * *

Apparently, he works at Hawk’s Eye Sporting Goods. It specializes in archery equipment but seems to have a little bit of everything. Bucky, from what America describes, doubles as buyer and salesman (Or, as America puts it, _you get their stuff for them and you sell it_ ) because he knows nothing about archery equipment, this is obviously a problem. Another problem is his boss.

“You work for Aunt Natasha,” America explains, as she’s getting into the car so that Bucky can drive her and Peter to school. It takes him five minutes to figure out how to buckle Peter into his car seat. Thankfully, America is capable of buckling herself into hers.

“Aunt Natasha?” Bucky mutters. He doesn’t think he’s met anyone named Natasha yet.

America points behind the car, across the street. Bucky squints over there, and slowly the memory returns; a redheaded woman holding her blonde daughter on her hip. Apparently good at working with tools and willing to throw a knife when she gets angry. Her husband called her _Nat_. Natasha. The apprehension builds.

“Oh my God,” he utters, as the buckle to Peter’s car seat finally clicks into place.

“You like working with her,” America insists. “She and Uncle Clint own the shop but all Uncle Clint ever does is teach people how to shoot arrows. Daddy says that I can learn how when I turn ten but I don’t think that’s fair because Kate gets to learn now.”

“Isn’t Kate their kid?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, kid, but that’s how things go sometimes,” Bucky mumbles, and gets into the front seat. “You can’t always get what you want. There’s probably a reason your daddy doesn’t want you learning how to shoot arrows at age…hey, how old are you two anyway?”

“I’m almost five and a half,” America says with an air of pride about her, “and Peter was born last August.”

So, five and sixteen months, respectively. Not bad. He and Steve, when they were in college, didn’t really talk about having kids. They were too young, and the careers they had planned for themselves too involved to plan for kids. He figures that nine or so years is enough time to make those sorts of plans. Still, he wonders why the decision was made. There’s another question nagging at the back of his mind, and he’s not sure if he should ask, but—

“Hey, so,” he mumbles, with some apprehension as he looks over his shoulder and backs out of the driveway. “Are you two adopted, or…?” He figures that America must know she’s adopted. She must know that two men can’t have children together, even at age five. He also doesn’t think that Steve or himself would try to deceive a child like that.

“I am,” America says, and Bucky figured that, at least. She has a complexion far darker than either of them, and there’s no way that a kid could get brown eyes or black hair with either him or Steve as the father. “Peter is your baby…or, my daddy’s baby. My daddies wanted another baby and Aunt Peggy said that she would have the baby, so they put Peter in Aunt Peggy’s belly. But Aunt Peggy isn’t Peter’s mommy just because she had him. She’s still Aunt Peggy.” She says this like she’s reciting, like someone along the way had been careful to explain this to her.

“Yeah, alright,” Bucky says. He glances in the rearview at Peter, and for the first time he can see himself in the kid: he has Barnes eyes, and a mob of brown hair that, to be fair, could belong to either him or Peggy, but Bucky likes to think it’s from him. He also has Bucky’s coloring.

(He’s not sure why finding out that Peter is his biologically makes it all that much more real for him, but it does. For some reason, it just does.)

“So, uh, where d’you go to daycare, sweetheart?” he mumbles as he puts the car in drive, and follows America’s directions (Albeit using vague landmarks like ‘turn left at the playground’ rather than actual street names) to a squat brown building. _Paramus Pre-Elementary_ , reads the sign outside. On the message board below: _WINTER CAMP: In session: Dec. 22 – Jan. 2. Closed weekends, Dec. 24 & 25\. Happy Holidays!_

“I have daycare until four,” she explains, “and then I have ballet until six. Ballet is in the community center.” She points across the street, where another squat building, this one proclaiming itself as _Paramus Community Center_. “And a bunch of us go, so one of the daycare ladies walks us over. At six, you’ve gotta pick me and Kate up and take us home and make us dinner. Don’t be late, because kids don’t like to be the last one picked up. Peter’s in the baby camp so he can stay here until six.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, struggling to catalogue the information. He watches America unbuckle herself and it doesn’t occur that he has to get Peter out until he realizes that America is just standing there, staring at him expectantly. He spends four more minutes struggling to unbuckle Peter from his car seat, and then carries him (Awkwardly on his hip with one arm) to the woman that is waiting just inside the door of the building, next to a paper sign reading _Baby camp drop-off_.

“So, uh, do I get a receipt, or something…?”

* * *

“You look like you’ve had a rough morning.”

“Ugh.”

Clint smiles at him apologetically, standing in the breezeway of Hawk’s Eye Sporting Goods. It took Bucky twenty minutes of driving in circles around Paramus to find this place, because Google Maps lies, it _lies_.

“Nat told me to yell at you because you’re, like, half an hour late. But you look like you had a rough morning and it’s the day after Christmas, so I guess I can cut you some slack. I’m co-owner so I can make decisions like that.” Which sounds like the kind of thing a guy says when he constantly has to remind people that he’s co-owner and he can make decisions like that, but Bucky doesn’t mention it. “If she asks, just tell her that I reamed you out.”

“Okay,” Bucky mumbles, because he doesn’t really know how else to respond to that. He also doesn’t know what he’s supposed to be doing for work, considering he’s never worked retail a day in his life. Even when he was eighteen and broke, he didn’t work retail. He worked with his hands, fixing fences or mowing lawns or shoveling snow. The closest he ever got to retail was, one time, a franchisee for 7/11 paid Bucky 3000 dollars to go around to all his Brooklyn locations and retile the bathrooms. He still has nightmares about that summer and the things he found in those bathrooms.

He wanders aimlessly for several minutes, because he doesn’t know what else to do and maybe if someone catches him slacking off they’ll yell at him and possibly explain his job to him in the process. All he gets is various people staring at him like he’s lost his mind. Which he essentially has, but there’s no real way to explain that to these people.

The store has a purple-and-black color scheme that isn’t nearly as objectionable as it could have been considering the general taste level in suburbia. This early in the morning there are only about five people wandering around at any given time and they almost without fail manage to find him. They recognize the purple and black polo shirt of an employee but obviously do not register the muted terror of a person who does not want to be addressed.

“Let me get back to you on that,” Bucky says, and wanders off every time.

Natasha rounds the corner just as he is deflecting some middle aged, receding hairlined guy asking about recurve bows, whatever those are. As he walks away, Natasha makes her presence known.

“I’m not sure what you’re up to, but stop messing around. It’s the day after Christmas and everyone and their brother is going to want to be returning things.” She crosses her arms and stares at him. She actually makes the uniform look good, wearing the shirt with pair of black slacks that hug her well. Bucky would be lying if he said he didn’t find women of Natasha’s type attractive, but he also gets the feeling that she is both capable of and willing to kill him with her pinky finger. He keeps his gaze firmly on her face.

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “I had a difficult morning. Steve’s at the studio and—“

“Yeah, I know the whole deal,” Natasha says. “But our kids go to the same exact daycare, James. If I can get Kate dropped off and be here before eight, there’s no reason you can’t.” She glares for a second longer, and then it softens just slightly as she adds, “Did Steve put you in the doghouse last night?”

Bucky rolls his shoulders. “Nah. He doesn’t like doin’ that. But, uh…I think he’s still pretty mad.”

“He’s listening to Taylor Swift, isn’t he?”

Bucky raises an eyebrow at her. “Yeah, how did you—“

Natasha tosses her head. Bucky watches the way her ponytail bounces at the movement, the way her lips quirk up just slightly at the corners. “I’m your friend, James. That’s how. But I’m your boss first and foremost when we’re here, and I can’t cut you slack just because we have a personal relationship. These high school kids can sniff out favoritism like a pig sniffs out truffles.”

Bucky nods, feeling properly sheepish.

“Go have a cup of coffee or something. Make whatever calls you need to, but don’t you dare hold yourself up in your office. The rush is going to hit soon and I need all hands on deck.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, and only once she walks away does he realize that he does not know where his office is. He flags down the first stockboy he sees.

His nametag reads _Billy_. He’s leanly muscular and on the short side of average, looks all of about sixteen and says, “Hey, Bucky!” when beckoned. Bucky isn’t used to people that much younger than him addressing him as anything but _sir_ or _Mr. Barnes_ , but he supposes stuff like this is the nature of retail. “You need something?”

“Yeah, do I have an office somewhere around here?”

“Yeah,” Billy says with a chuckle.

Bucky raises his eyebrows. “Well…where is it?”

Hesitantly, Billy points in a general direction. “Um…right over there?”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, and walks away. Behind him, Billy makes several noises like he isn’t sure if he should be laughing or not. Bucky walks in as straight a line as he can in the direction Billy pointed. After doing loops around displays and shelves and walking down a long hallway guarded by a door marked _employees only_ , he does eventually find a door. A sign, ‘Bucky Barnes—general manager’, sticks to it. It’s nothing like the nameplate outside his office in Manhattan, in his other life. It’s literally just a piece of printer paper with his name in Sharpie tapped to a door.

So he’s gone from being President of StarkTech to general manager of Hawk’s Eye Sporting Goods.

What a life.

The office is approximately the size of a closet. He quite literally had a closet this size in his first apartment. Considering his track record with closets—an image of his closet, the one that is rightfully his and not the pisspoor excuse of this life, comes to mind; he aches with longing—doesn’t say much, but this room really is miniscule. It has enough room for a small desk shoved into a corner, two straight-backed wooden chairs sitting opposite, and a filing cabinet. He rounds the desk and sits in a roughened rolling task chair.

There are pictures on the desk. One of America taken at least a year ago. She’s smiling in pigtails and a summer dress. The frame has the words _Daddy’s girl_ running along the bottom in cursive font. He fights the urge to roll his eyes; not at the picture, of course, but the frame. Another picture: himself holding a newborn Peter. Bucky stares at himself and he looks…tired, and run ragged with hair that looks like it hasn’t been combed and a day’s worth of growth on his face, but also happy. Bucky is familiar enough with his own expressions to know that the one he is wearing in that picture is one of genuine happiness.

On the other side of the desk sits the same picture he saw in Clint’s basement yesterday; all four of them sitting at some white-clothed banquet table. Next to it, a picture of Steve. Face half-hidden by a pillow like he’s trying to hide. It doesn’t matter; the picture is gorgeous. It’s captured all the most important aspects: a lock of golden blond hair falling into a cornflower blue eye, the dusting of freckles on one cheek and the curve of a smile trying to hard to be smothered. Bucky decides that he likes it.

When he rummages through a drawer, he finds a small bottle of gin. He is not a gin drinker, has never liked gin, but the fact that it’s there must mean something. He stares at it, then at himself in the picture of Peter’s birth and mumbles, “Is this how you did it?” He looks back at the bottle, considers taking a swig, and decides not to. Puts it back in the desk to revisit at a later point.

Two things are framed on the wall behind the desk; one of them is his diploma from NYU. The other is a certificate. _James B. Barnes – N. J. Fury & Co. #1 Junior Sales Associate, 2000. _He’s slightly impressed with himself, because if you can impress the guys at N. J. Fury you can impress almost anyone. Getting something like number one sales associate at N. J. Fury could do almost as much for you as his internship with Hydra Enterprises had—

His train of thought derails there. His eyes trace over the year again. 2000.

“2000,” he mutters to himself. “I was in Germany in 2000…” The realization hits. He looks back at himself in Peter’s birth picture. “You never went to Germany. You never got on that plane. You never…”

So that’s the splitting point. That’s the point at which his life went to shit. He looks at the picture of Steve on his desk and furrows his brows, wants to blame him.

“Well, at least one of us got what we wanted,” he mutters to Steve’s picture.

The intercom beeps to life, Natasha’s voice squealing through with, “ _James_ ,” and interrupting whatever trashy pop song was playing over the speakers beforehand. He jumps and looks up.  “ _We need you at the returns desk._ ”

“Where the fuck is that?” he mutters to himself, rising from his chair because he doesn’t want to piss Natasha off even if he’s not sure where she is. When he finds his way back to the sales floor, he grabs the first employee he can find—Billy, again—and says, “Hey, walk with me to the returns desk.” He’s not going to spend twenty minutes trying to find what he’s looking for due to Billy’s apparent penchant for giving directions by pointing.

“Um…okay,” Billy says. Leads him to the other side of the store, to a counter with ‘RETURNS’ embossed along the front. Natasha is at one register and already dealing with a customer. There are several more waiting and an unattended cash register next to Natasha. Billy turns to him and says, “So, uh, here’s the returns desk. Are you sure you’re okay, Bucky?”

“To be honest,” Bucky sighs, glancing around at this purple-and-black retail nightmare, “I’m trying to figure out why I work here…”

“Oh,” Billy says. “I just started last Monday, so…”

Seeing his opportunity, Bucky asks, “So you’ve been trained, right?”

Billy nods like he thinks this is some kind of test and straightens up. “Oh, yeah. Teddy trained me all last week.”

“Awesome.” Bucky has no idea who Teddy is. It _really_ doesn’t matter. “Well, as general manager, I’m sure you’re aware that I’m in charge of personnel and training, so in order to make sure that you’ve been trained correctly, I’m going to need you to tell me everything Teddy told you.”

Billy looks apprehensive. “Everything?”

“Everything.” Bucky glances at the cash register, at the people gathered with ill-advised Christmas gifts in their arms, at the impatient look on most of those faces. “Start with the returns desk.”

* * *

America scowls at him when he pulls up in front of the community center, Peter already secured in his booster seat in the back, because apparently she’s somehow the last one being picked up even though it’s only ten past six. She climbs into the very back bench seat with Kate. They giggle the entire ride home, so Bucky assumes that her ire is easily forgotten.

Once home, he scours the fridge and cabinets for something to make the girls to eat. Peter is content with a sippy cup of milk and a plate of mashed banana (Thank you, Google) but the girls are, obviously, a little pickier. America pops her head in once he’s been standing in front of the fridge for three minutes, letting all of the cold air out as he stares at the sparse contents, and announces, “We like grilled cheese,” before disappearing again. Bucky grabs the bread and whatever cheese he can get his hands on, makes four grilled cheese sandwiches. Then, just because he can—and because he was a kid once, too; he remembers these things—he puts on a can of tomato soup. The girls are happy, and Kate crosses the street to her parents (Bucky’s bosses, he reminds himself) when she sees their car in the driveway, fed and content.

Steve comes in the door at half past eight, fingers and forearms stained with a rainbow of paints. He walks into the kitchen wearing a striped blue overshirt unbuttoned over a paint-speckled grey tank top. His glasses are on again. Bucky stares for a long time at his sharp collarbones.

“Hey,” Steve greets, reaching into the fridge to retrieve a bottle of water. He closes it and leans against the counter as he twists the lid off the bottle and takes several large gulps. As he twists it back on, he wipes his mouth and asks, “How was work?”

“Shitty,” Bucky replies. Steve shushes him, because America is watching cartoons in the living room, but he’s got a little smirk on that reminds Bucky of mischief and all the bad ideas that he went through with just because Steve smiled at him. Bucky asks, “How was yours?” mostly because he knows he’s obligated to, but part of him is genuinely curious.

“Really good, actually,” Steve says. “Long, but productive.” He looks down into the pot of cooling tomato soup on the stove. “Can I have the rest of this?”

“Yeah. I made you a grilled cheese too, if you’re interested.”

Steve smiles over at him—it’s a small thing, but it still makes Bucky feel kind of warm. He says, “Thanks, bud,” and turns on the stove to warm up the soup. He finds the grilled cheese in the microwave, where Bucky put it in an attempt to keep it warm. It worked, or Steve just doesn’t mind eating lukewarm grilled cheese sandwiches, because he pulls it out, takes the tin foil off the plate and takes a bite still standing there at the counter. He glances at Bucky out of the corner of his eye and asks, around his mouthful, “What kind of cheese is in this?”

“You—uh, we had some smoked cheddar. I grated that. The girls just had American on theirs.” Because they were actually willing to tolerate it, whereas Bucky wasn’t, but Steve doesn’t need to know that.

Steve smirks. “Mister Fancy over here with his smoked cheddar cheese sandwiches.” He turns off the tomato soup and pours it into a bowl, carries both the bowl and the sandwich plate over to the table and sits down across from Bucky. There’s companionable silence as Bucky scrolls on his phone and Steve eats, the sounds from the living room TV floating softly through the house.

“Hey,” Steve says when he’s done with his food. Nudges Bucky’s ankle under the table with his foot. Bucky looks up, and Steve has this…odd expression on his face. Bucky feels like he should recognize it, but he’s having a hard time. “You walk the dog yet?” Bucky nods. “How about we put the kids to bed early tonight?”

“Uh…sure.”

“Alright,” Steve says, still quiet. Like it’s a secret. “I’ll go give America her bath. Can you put Peter down?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, this time without too much apprehension because he’s beginning to realize that he’s good with Peter. They can relate to each other. They’re both new to this world and spend about seventy percent of their time confused as to what everyone else is doing and saying.

Steve offers a smile, and stands up with his plate and bowl piled in one hand, his empty water bottle in the other. The dinnerware finds its home in the sink, the water bottle in a mesh bag hanging on the knob of a cupboard (It says _Keep NJ Green! Reduce! Reuse! Recycle!_ ). Steve pushes himself between Bucky’s knees, bending to rest his hands on his thighs. Bucky doesn’t know exactly how to react, but Steve only stays there long enough to kiss Bucky on the corner of the mouth, trail two fingers through the hair at his temple and murmur, “I really love you, you know that?” His eyes are huge close up, flicking back and forth like he’s trying to read Bucky like a book.

Bucky nods. Because he does. It’s obvious. “Yeah. I do.”

“Good,” Steve breathes, barely-there. He rises and stretches out with his arms high above his head, shirt lifting up to reveal a sliver of skin. Bucky wonders if he should glance away, but something tells him that Steve wants him to look—and, furthermore, that he _can_ look. Without consequence. Because they’re…yeah. Steve walks out of the kitchen, adjusting his shirt. Bucky can hear him say, “Time for your bath, little girl,” and America’s whining.

Peter is already bathed and dressed for bed, mostly because the aftermath of dinner involved him having to scrub Peter free of the banana that was stuck to his face—and everything else. That was an experience. Kneeling next to the tub with America sitting on the toilet lid as she instructed him on how to bathe a baby, because apparently her daddies taught her that for her baby dolls as well. Of course, her knowledge had significant gaps in it—for instance, her baby dolls did not flail why being bathed. Bucky had only just pulled on a new shirt when Steve walked in the door.

Upstairs, Bucky picks Peter up out of his playpen—and he’s actually getting comfortable with holding him—and says, “C’mon, Peter, bedtime.”

Peter doesn’t complain nearly as much as his sister. When Bucky puts him down in his crib, Peter coos and grabs onto Bucky’s hands as he pulls them away. Bucky lets him wrap his chubby, tiny hand all the way around his fingers. Bucky stares at him, at the dimple in his chin and the blue of his eyes.

“Jesus,” Bucky whispers, softly touching Peter’s cheek, his already-thick hair. “You’re gonna look just like me.”

Peter gives an oblivious, gummy grin.

“Goodnight, Peter,” he murmurs, and turns on the mobile above the bed—more spiders; he didn’t even realize that arachnids where kid-friendly—before he slips out of the room, turning the nightlight on and the overhead off as he goes. Across the hall, Steve is kneeling in front of the tub like Bucky had earlier, with his shirt pulled up to his elbows. America looks a bit like a drowned poodle, all that curly hair flattened against her head with water and a discontent look on her face.

“Miss America,” Steve sings. He’s holding a rubber duck in his hand. It’s blue with what looks like a helmet on its head, red and white stripes on its tail. “Smile.”

America pouts more.

“Smile or Ameriquack’ll be sad.” Bucky feels a bit of secondary embarrassment because _Ameriquack. Really_.

It seems to amuse America. She scrunches up her face in an attempt not to smile.

“Oh, you’re making him cry,” Steve announces, and squeezes the duck. A jet of water hits America square in the forehead. She breaks into giggles, and Steve sets the duck down to run a hand through her hair. “That’s my girl.”

Over Steve’s shoulder, America makes eye contact with Bucky and gives a small smile. He winks at her before continuing on down the hall. It’s a quarter past nine now, and he turns on the television in the bedroom for background noise as he rummages in the drawer for pajamas.

“…The U.S. Department of Labor announced today that 2.5 million new jobs are expected to be created in 2015, 840,000 of which alone are anticipated to be the product of the rapidly-emerging nanotechnology industry. This statement comes immediately after another announcement, that of a merger between two of the biggest names in nanotechnology on the market today: StarkTech and S.H.I.E.L.D. Engineering.”

If Bucky’s ears were capable of perking up they would. He turns around, shirt halfway over his head. For some reason, the television was already flipped to CNBC when he turned it on. They are now broadcasting a video of some press conference from earlier in the day held in the press room at The StarkTech Building. Bucky recognizes it easily; he’s been in there more than once, either to announce deals or do crisis management. StarkTech tends to run into situations that require extensive crisis management.

This is not one of those situations, however. The men at the lecterns for this particular news conference are familiar to Bucky. One is Phil Coulson, S.H.I.E.L.D. CEO and the man whose brain and wallet Bucky has been trying to pick for the last eight months. The other is Arnim Zola, Vice President of StarkTech.

Or, according to CNBC, President of StarkTech.

“That’s my deal,” Bucky hisses, incredulously watching as the banner scrolls across the bottom of the page: _StarkTech & S.H.I.E.L.D. announce $74 billion merger._

“By becoming part of the StarkTech conglomerate in a surprise seventy-four billion dollar merger, S.H.I.E.L.D. is paving the way for massive expansion in both medical and military nanotechnology. StarkTech president Arnim Zola announced at a press conference held earlier today that the company will be providing state-of-the-art laboratory space for the research and development of over 160 experimental designs, which in the coming years could revolutionize medicine, combat, and possibly even infrastructure. Zola and CEO of S.H.I.E.L.D. Phil Coulson apparently met at a concert given by the New York Philharmonic Orchestra, in which Zola’s daughter and Coulson’s wife both play. The two Forbes-recognized executives apparently struck up a conversation about the need for consolidation within the technology and engineering fields, and ten months later the merger came to fruition. CNBC was there as the merger was announced this afternoon…”

“The _Philharmonic_?” Bucky bellows at the television. He throws his T-shirt into the corner of the room. It bounces off the wall and lands three feet from the hamper. “That’s my deal! How did Zola get his grubby little hands on it?! That’s mine!” He shoves down his pants and kicks them away, pulls up pair of grey pajama pants, and drops onto the foot of the bed. “That’s my deal,” he grumbles, as he twists the drawstrings of the pajama bottoms into a tight knot cinched above his hipbones. The dog wanders in, drawn to his location by the sound of yelling and butts her nose up against Bucky’s knee. He looks down at her. “That’s my deal.”

Liberty’s mouth falls open and her tongue lolls out.

“Exactly.”

He shrugs on the shirt belonging to the pajama pants but forgets to button it in his preoccupation with CNBC, leaving it open and hanging as he shifts to the head of the bed and pouts against the headboard. When Steve comes in half an hour later and pulls the curtains, Bucky hardly pays attention aside from noticing that Steve is in the room.

“The kids are asleep,” Steve announces. He ruffles the dog’s floppy ears and clicks his tongue to send her out of the room.

“Yeah,” Bucky grunts.

“Bucky,” Steve says, trying hard not to overbalance as he toes off his shoes next to the bed where there’s nothing to hold onto. “The kids are _asleep_.”

“Good,” Bucky says, still glaring holes into Arnim Zola’s stupid forehead. “Those munchkins can be a damn handful.”

“Okay, what have we said about watching CNBC before bed?” Steve crawls onto the bed. “You’re just gonna send your blood pressure through the roof.” He slips the remote out from under Bucky’s thigh and turns the television off.

“Hey!” Bucky says, turning to look at him for the first time. He’s taken off the overshirt he was wearing earlier, now in just the grey tank. His hair is wild and very faintly paint-speckled, looks like he’s been running his hands through it all day. His shoes and socks are off, and Bucky stares for a long moment at his ankles. Bucky always liked his ankles. “I was watching that…”

“No you weren’t,” Steve murmurs, and throws a leg over to straddle Bucky, sits on his hips. “You were glaring at it. There’s a difference.” He grabs the flaps of Bucky’s shirt and pulls it halfway down his arms, ducks down to whisper in Bucky’s ear, “We have two sleeping kids, a locked door and half an hour before you turn into a pumpkin, Cinderella.” He trails soft kisses down Bucky’s jaw then pulls away to work open his fly. Bucky feels his body temperature rise with every button he undoes.

“You want me, huh?” Bucky whispers. He reaches out and tucks a lock of hair behind Steve’s ear, swallows thickly.

“That’s the general idea, yup,” Steve says, and then starts working on Bucky’s drawstring. “Christ, Bucky, what’d you do with this, tie it in a Gordian knot?” He plucks at it further. With every brush of his fingers, Bucky reacts between his legs. Apparently his body has not forgotten how to react to Steve’s charms, even after fifteen years. It also apparently doesn’t care that intimacy is most certainly not like riding a bicycle, and after nearly half a damn lifetime of casual hookups and one night stands he’s completely forgotten how to do it. He makes a noise and Steve looks up. Smirks, but not like some people do in this situation; not like he’s laughing to himself. More like they’re sharing a joke. “’s what I like to hear.”

“Shouldn’t we, uh…” Bucky clears his throat. Steve gives a noise of triumph as he gets the knot untied. “Y’know, get some wine or something?”

Steve laughs. “It’s ten o’clock, Buck. If you’re not asleep by ten-thirty, you’re worse than the kids in the morning.” He kisses Bucky’s chin, quick and soft, more apparent from the quiet sound his mouth makes than the sensation on his skin. “But I appreciate the thought, I really do. Maybe another time.”

“Alright,” Bucky whispers. He tilts his head up, pushes his fingers into Steve’s hair when he presses their mouths together, tightens his grip when Steve sweeps his tongue, warm and wet, against the seam of his lips. Bucky opens his mouth, slides his tongue in alongside Steve’s on the next kiss. And the next kiss. And the next.

It’s been a long time, but Steve still tastes the same. Bucky remembers licking the taste of chocolate off these lips, or beer or wine or lemonade or mint toothpaste, but underneath it all was the same clean, vaguely sweet taste. There was a time in his life when he didn’t think kisses would ever taste of anything but Steve’s mouth.

Bucky grabs him by the butt and flips them over, settles himself between Steve’s open legs. He creeps a hand up the back of his shirt, cups his shoulder blade, breaks away from his mouth to suck kisses onto his jaw and neck. Steve arches under him, hikes his knees up around Bucky’s hips. He’s hard against Bucky’s stomach.

“Not the neck,” Steve whispers, breath short but not wheezing, not hitching in that way that Bucky still remembers means _stop_ even if Steve is still saying _go_. “America asks too many questions.”

Bucky pulls back and meets his eyes, braces himself on his forearms to lift slightly off Steve, to stare at him for a second. Steve’s eyes flutter open. His expression is…it’s sexual, it’s undeniably erotic with flushed cheeks and swollen lips and messy hair in his eyes. But it’s also tender and trusting and…

It’s not meant for him, is what it is. It’s meant for Steve’s Bucky. The one that stayed with him through fifteen years of whatever their lives have been until this point. The one that never got on a plane to Germany and broke his heart. Bucky doesn’t regret what he did, what his other life is, but it doesn’t change the guilt he feels for deceiving Steve’s trust just by doing this, pretending to be something he’s not. At the same time, Steve stares at him with raised eyebrows and Bucky can feel his toes digging into his thighs, and he wants, he _wants_ , and Steve is…

“You’re gorgeous,” he tells him, earnestly. “I mean, Jesus.”

Steve grins, blushes just slightly. “Thanks Buck.”

“I mean it,” Bucky insists. “I dunno if I tell you this enough, but you’re really somethin’, bud.”

“This is good,” Steve chuckles, trailing his fingers over Bucky’s chest. It tickles, but Bucky doesn’t laugh. The sensation goes straight to his groin. He huffs and Steve grins. “Keep it comin’.”

“You were cute in college,” Bucky says, and rocks against Steve, springs of the bed creaking with stress. Steve’s head drops back, and Bucky kisses the underside of his chin, quick and soft, like Steve did to him a moment before. “I mean, I noticed you because you were cute as a damn button, but now…” For the longest time, the last image he had of Steve in his mind was that of Steve standing in the airport, clutching his hair and crying like he couldn’t help it; like the tears were just an unstoppable flow. Now, with this older Steve giving an open-mouthed grin of content and arousal, he can finally replace it. “You’re just beautiful.”

Steve stops smiling, and Bucky scrambles to backtrack, to figure out what he said wrong, but Steve doesn’t look upset. He looks almost shocked.

“How can you do that?” Steve whispers. Flattens his hand against Bucky’s chest and moves it up to cradle the back of his neck. “How can you look at me like you haven’t seen me every single day for the last fifteen years?”

Bucky opens his mouth, unsure of how to reply. He’s saved from having to figure it out by the baby monitor crackling to life on the nightstand and Peter’s wailing announcing his demand for immediate attention. Steve grumbles, mutters, “Shit _…_ ” and Bucky makes some vague, disappointed noise, but he’s actually relieved.

He starts to crawl off Steve, mumbling, “I’ll go—“ but Steve plants a hand on his chest, rolls over and somehow gets his legs under himself without Bucky getting up.

“No, I’ll go,” Steve says, extracting himself from the bed. One pant leg is rolled all the way up to his knee and his hair is almost entirely flipped forward into his eyes. He points at Bucky, walking backwards. “Stay right there. Don’t move.”

“Okay,” Bucky says.

“Don’t move,” Steve mouths.

“Okay,” Bucky mouths, and grins when Steve shuffles out into the hallway. A moment later, he hears him in the baby’s room, hushing Peter and humming softly.

“Shhh,” he says, “look, baby. Here I am; Daddy’s here. What’s the matter? What’s the matter, Peter? You need your diaper changed? Ohh, yes. Yes you do.” Bucky laughs quietly at the offended tone clear even over the baby monitor. “Alright, we’re gonna change your diaper, and then you’re gonna go to sleep, because daddies need some private time. I need to give your daddy a bl—“

“ _Steve_ ,” he hisses towards the baby monitor.

“He’s too young to understand what I’m saying.”

They both laugh, then the baby monitor drops into silence as Steve carries Peter away from the crib and over to the changing table. Bucky shifts—even though Steve told him not to, laying widthwise across the bed is actual hell on his knees—until he’s laying with his head on his pillow. He listens to the low sounds the baby monitor can still pick up, Steve softly humming to Peter and Peter sleepily babbling, and thinks about Steve’s expression from a moment earlier; all of that trust and affection that is not his to take. He rolls onto his side and closes his eyes. Just to rest them.

 When Steve comes in, he says, “Okay, where were we?” and Bucky means to react, he really isn’t falling asleep, but he thinks about taking advantage of Steve’s trust, of this situation, about what kind of man that would make him. He opens his eyes and stares at the bedside table, at the blinking red light of his charging phone, and doesn’t move.

Behind him, Steve sighs. Bucky hears fabric rustling, and Steve carries his shirt and pants over to the corner to drop them in the hamper, picks up Bucky’s shirt from the floor. Bucky watches the plane of his back move as he pulls a sweatshirt out of one of the dresser drawers and pulls it on. Closes his eyes before Steve turns back around, and the light goes off behind his eyelids.

“G’night, pal,” Steve murmurs, and crawls onto the bed. Settles down with his arm over Bucky’s waist and his nose against Bucky’s neck, just like last night.

Bucky opens his eyes, and stares into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Steve lets Bucky see him naked in the shower, unaware that Bucky is not his husband. Bucky is embarrassed. Could be considered non-consensual exhibitionism.  
> Steve asks Bucky if he wants to have sex later without explicitly stating the question as such because the children are in the other room, assuming Bucky will understand what he means and obviously not realizing that Bucky will not understand his 'code'. Bucky agrees in his ignorance and therefore cannot be considered as fully consenting. Later, when Steve initiates intimacy, Bucky is initially apprehensive and consents somewhat dubiously, but quickly begins to enthusiastically participate. Possible mutual dubious consent, as Steve is still not aware that Bucky is not his husband and therefore is not consenting to who he thinks he's consenting to. The encounter does not lead to either of them getting undressed.
> 
> Thank you for reading this chapter! Sorry about the wall of warnings, but better safe than sorry. :)  
> (For future reference: When I say I'm going to update on Friday, what I actually mean is two AMish EST. Last Friday was a fluke and I usually update much earlier than late afternoon.)
> 
> As always, feel free to follow me on Tumblr under the same username.


	5. Chapter 5

The New Year comes and goes without much event. Neither of them have New Year’s Eve or New Year’s day off—although, in Steve’s case, it’s more like he’s not _giving_ himself the days off—and they fall asleep in front of the television before the ball even drops. At four AM, Bucky stirs awake to the sound of an infomercial about a blender and Steve snoring into his shoulder. He sits there for the ten minutes between waking up and Steve tugging him to bed, and thinks about how it’s been a week since he was transported into this strange life, and it feels, quite literally, like a lifetime. That he isn’t any closer to figuring out what he’s supposed to need from this life.

It’s been a long week of learning to do a job that he’s never had before and everyone expects him to know like the back of his hand, driving the kids to daycare, picking them up and making dinner and walking the dog. Steve came home past ten the entire week, and Bucky put both the kids to bed himself. He’d mind, but Steve always gave him this warm, appreciative smile as he warmed up his dinner, and Bucky couldn’t bring himself to say anything. It’s been the longest week of his life, and he doesn’t understand why Sam would imply that he _needs_ something from all of this suffering. At this point, all he _needs_ is a solid nine hours in which to do nothing but sleep.

When last Sunday passed without Steve trying to drag him off to church, Bucky allowed himself to think that Steve is like him and lost his religion later in life. Back in college, they went to church together because, half the time, it was the only day they could spend together and going to church got them out of bed early instead of sleeping in until noon and doing nothing. At this point in his life, however, Bucky is just about as disconnected with his Catholic roots as someone can get. He hasn’t been to church in five years.

So on Saturday night when Steve says, “Church tomorrow,” and herds the kids off to bed, Bucky wants to drop his head onto the table and bang it repeatedly. Instead, he drags himself up to the bedroom and tries to figure out what his Sunday best is in this life. He quickly gives up and falls asleep fully clothed at nine PM. At eleven, he wakes up, strips down, and crawls back into bed. Steve wakes up enough to blink slowly at him.

“Juh s’n’rm?” Steve mumbles.

“Wha?”

“Did you set an alarm?” Steve asks, over annunciating this time.

“What time?” Bucky ask, and grunts as he rolls over, grunts again when the light from his cell phone almost blinds him. He reels back and blinks several times until he can make out what is on his screen.

“Six.”

Bucky groans as he sets the alarm. When he’s done, and the fiery light of a thousand suns is no longer burning into his retinas, he announces, “Okay, alarm set,” and rolls over, flings an arm over Steve’s smaller frame carelessly, and snuffles against the back of his head. His hair is slightly damp and smells like Irish Springs body wash.

“Wanna go to th’ mall tomorrow,” Steve says thickly into his pillow.

“M’kay.”

“Promised ‘mer’ca I’d get her s’me new shoes.”

“Kay.”

“And, uh…gotta pick up an order ‘f paint I put in at, uh, that one store.”

“Mmm.” He shifts closer to Steve, seeking his warmth as he falls rapidly back asleep.

“Love you, Buck. G’night.”

Bucky sighs into his hair and doesn’t respond—Steve wouldn’t hear it anyway, not with his good ear against the pillow and his hearing aid taken out. He just tightens the arm around Steve’s waist, and Steve threads his fingers through Bucky’s hand. They falling asleep again.

In the morning, they drive half an hour to Maplewood—and Bucky pretended that he couldn’t find his keys at the last moment to get out of driving because he does not know where they’re supposed to be going—to St. Joseph Catholic Church. Steve bitches about having to drive the minivan (“I can’t turn it; the angles mess me up. And it _smells_ , Bucky; you have to stop letting Liberty ride in it when she’s wet”) because Peter's carseat doesn't fit in the Jetta. They have a short argument that Bucky cringes through and Steve forgets about ten minutes later.

Bucky wonders for half the drive why they go to church half an hour away, but eventually pulls his head out of his ass and remembers that they’re a same-sex couple with children, one of whom is Hispanic, and stops wondering. He likes to think that the world has changed since he and Steve had to sit with a carefully-measured distance between themselves in the pew, but sometimes things just don’t change fast enough.

Before the service, Steve chats with others in the congregation about Christmas and New Years and the kids, smiling and laughing all while bouncing Peter on his hip. Bucky hangs back, holding America’s hand and generally trying to pretend that he knows these people when he could not call them by their names if he wanted to. America tugs on his shirt sleeve, and he bends down to listen to what she has to say.

“I go downstairs,” she informs.

“What for, catechism or something?” he mumbles, furrowing his brows. He remembers catechism. He remembers Sister Rose and her hellfire and brimstone in a tiny back room of Our Lady of Perpetual Help Elementary School. He’s not sure it’s something he would put his child through unless catechism has changed a lot in the last twenty years.

“No,” America says. “Catechism doesn’t start until you’re six. All the preschool kids go downstairs during Mass. Father Reynolds tells us about Jesus and then we play games.”

Sunday school then. Bucky has pretty unsavory memories of Sunday school too, but it’s not like he can say anything. He asks, “If the priest is looking after you, who gives Mass?”

“We have three priests here,” America says. “They all do Mass sometimes, but mostly Father Edwards. Father Reynolds teaches the kids most days, and Father Bautista gives Mass in Spanish sometimes. Oh, and when people get married, Father Reynolds does the officilating most of the time.”

“You mean he officiates?”

“Yeah.” America stands there for a minute, twisting back and forth so her skirt goes back and forth across her knees, expectant look on her face. “So…can I?”

“Can you what?”

“Go _downstairs_ ,” America whines with an irritated hop.

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Not like Bucky really has any say in what she does, because she’s essentially not his kid and he never has any idea what’s going on nowadays, but if having permission makes her feel better about wandering of (In a _church_ ) then so be it.

“Okay,” America says, and hugs him around the legs. “I’ll see you after Mass.”

“Alright,” he says, patting her between the shoulders.

She hops off and past a door propped open on the other side of the antechamber. As she disappears, the crowd of people that has been gathered milling begins to rapidly disperse and continue into the church and the pews. Steve picks a pew near the front. It doesn’t pass Bucky’s notice that the door of the cry room is nearby. He wonders if Peter cries often during Mass. Bucky wouldn’t blame him if he did. Sitting still for over an hour is torture for him, and he’s a thirty-six years old. He can’t imagine how unbearable it must be for a sixteen-month-old.

Father Edwards looks to be in his late sixties and speaks in a loud, droning voice that threatens to put Bucky to sleep. Bucky has forgotten all of the responses he’s supposed to be giving; just kind of mouths vaguely and tries to turn his head away from Steve so that he can’t tell. Part of him hopes that Peter starts crying so that he can volunteer to carry him into the cry room, which is remains empty throughout the service, but Peter stays quiet as a mouse aside from a few quiet gurgles. He spends more time monitoring Peter for any sign of distress than he does listening.

When Steve stands up, Bucky thinks it must surely mean that Mass is over. It feels like a short millennia has passed. He starts to pick up his coat and Steve delivers a strange look.

“What are you doing?” he whispers.

“Uh,” Bucky says. “Putting my coat on?”

“We’re not leaving yet,” Steve says incredulously, and only then does Buck glance over and notice the congregation gathering at the altar. There is an usher giving a similar odd look. Communion. Right.

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “I, uh…got distracted.”

“Just move,” Steve says, pushing at Bucky’s chest. Bucky turns and walks out of the pew, lets Steve get in line in front of him. Steve takes communion by his mouth while still holding Peter. Bucky watches what he does, how he bows and says _amen_ before receiving the wafer on his tongue. Bucky tries to copy him, panics and holds out his hands. The deacon sets the wafer in his hands and says, “The body of Christ.”

Bucky nods, and then stutters, “Thanks. Er…Amen…” and shuffles after Steve, shoving the wafer into his mouth. It tastes just as bad as he remembers. It’s made slightly better by the wine, but not by much.

Back in the pew, Steve sets Peter down between them and kneels forward, folds his hands over the pew and bows his head. Bucky follows his lead like a child at their first mass, and stays there until communion is done.

 _Dear God,_ he thinks, _help me_.

For the rest of Mass, he holds Peter in his lap and lets himself be distracted by Peter pulling on his shirt and tie and hair. He thinks they’re both pretty relieved when the priest exits.                                                                                    

“Now we can leave,” Steve says, pulls on his jacket and takes Peter so Bucky can do the same. He watches with a strange look on his face as Bucky pulls on his coat. Bucky thinks he’s about to be reamed out, but all Steve says is, “You look good like that, bud. It’s been a long time since you’ve done your hair that way.”

“Has it?” Bucky mumbles, touching his slicked-back hair. He had the occasion to buy a bottle of gel a few days ago, and figured church was as good a reason as any to pop it open. “Eh. Just figured I’d try something different.” He stands up and follows Steve out into the antechamber, where America bounds up to them. He ruffles her hair. “Hey, kiddo. Have fun?”

“Yeah!” she cries. “We played heads-up-seven-up! I played four rounds before I had to sit down.”

“Cool,” Bucky says, even though he has no idea what that means. He glances over his shoulder at Steve, asks, “Where to now? The mall?”

“No,” Steve says, hitching Peter up higher on his hip. “It’s eleven-thirty now, it’ll be twelve by the time we get home…these kids need lunch and then naps. We’ll go to the mall later, say around five?”

“Alright.”

On the ride home, Peter apparently chooses to let loose with all the volume that he was holding in at Mass. He starts crying when they get on the freeway and just doesn’t stop. Bucky tries everything, leaning awkwardly over the consol and between the seats to shake toys at Peter, smiling at him, talking to him, _pleading with him_. Nothing effects him. He sits there in his car seat and wails. Steve is white knuckling the steering wheel, and Bucky’s temples throb.

“It’s like colic or something,” Bucky groans. He’s not precisely sure what colic is, but he knows that babies cry a lot when they have it.

“No, the colic was worse,” Steve sighs, “but this is pretty bad. Peter,” he looks up, into the smaller mirror below the rearview, focused on the kids in the backseat. “Please stop crying, baby, please. What’s the matter? God, I know I’ll regret this when he’s fourteen and he won’t _stop_ telling us what’s wrong, but I wish he could talk.”

Bucky chuckles in the back of his throat, leaning his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes. In a last ditch effort, he starts humming softly, looking for a tune. He doesn’t really know any lullabies; can never remember the all lyrics to _Hush Little Baby_ , doesn’t think _You Are My Sunshine_ is long enough. Finally, he locates a memory, a song from a movie he only knows because Steve made him watch it so many times. It’s in the background of half his memories of college.

“ _I can’t give you anything but love, baby. It’s the only thing I’ve plenty of, baby. Scheme awhile, dream awhile, we’re sure to find happiness and, I guess, all those things you’ve always pined for…”_

Peter quiets down, either thrown off by the sudden change in events or because he’s actually soothed by the sound. Bucky stops and grins in the mirror, says, “Hey, lookit that.” Peter starts whimpering again.

“Keep singing,” Steve says urgently.

“Uh… _Gee, I’d like to see you looking swell, baby. Diamond bracelets…_ uh…”

” _Diamond bracelets Woolworth doesn’t sell, baby,_ ” Steve sings, and yeah, he has a pretty subpar singing voice, always has, but Bucky still has to hunker down in his seat to hide his grin. “’ _Til that lucky day you know darned well, baby. I can’t give you anything but love._ ” Steve turns into the driveway, because they were almost home when serendipity hit. Bucky hurries Peter to a nap. As he puts the baby down, he can hear Steve arguing with America (“America Margaret Barnes, if you want to get new shoes later, you _will_ take a nap”).

The argument must end in his favor.they meet in the hallway, and Steve groans pointedly as he shrugs off his coat.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen,” Steve sighs, “is why the Barnes family only goes to Mass once a month.”

“Because our kids are nuts?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I need a nap, too. Coming?”

“Depends on what nap means,” Bucky says. He says it with innuendo, but only because he feels it may be expected of him. He’s a sexual person with a healthy libido, so it’s not exactly that he doesn’t want to, but trying to have sex didn’t end so well last time. He isn’t sure he’ll ever feel right about it, to be honest. Wonders if he should just keep his hands to himself until Sam sends him back or it becomes clear that he’s going to be here forever. Which, at this point, he probably will be.

But Steve yawns and says, “Laying down and not moving for two hours. Maybe sleeping.”

“What’s a nap without sleep?”

“The nap of parents with two kids under the age of six,” Steve mutters, and disappears into the bedroom. When Bucky comes in, he’s face-down on the bed with his feet hanging off the bed. Bucky laughs and pulls his shoes and socks off for him. Steve grumbles, “Leave me alone.”

“C’mon, pal,” Bucky mumbles, crawling onto the bed behind him. He tugs at him until he rolls over and faces him. Bucky wants to kiss him, suddenly, but doesn’t. Instead says, “Hey, is _Bringing Up Baby_ still your favorite movie?”

“Yeah,” Steve says.

“Watched it recently?”

Steve shakes his head. “Not in a few years.”

“Wanna?” He assumes they have it on DVD or something. Steve used to have it on VHS but Bucky hasn’t seen a VHS or a VHS player in ten years. Just to make sure, he adds, “We have it, right?” because that doesn’t seem like too weird of a question. In this day and age, people forget what they have in their DVD cabinets all the time.

“Yeah, it’s in the cabinet downstairs.” Steve smiles and reaches across the short distance between them, takes Bucky’s hand. “And yeah, I’d love to.”

Bucky nods. It feels weirdly like their first date all over again—not that it was much of a first date. Steve got sick and canceled at the last second, but Bucky still came, invited himself over to Steve’s dorm and brought him chicken soup. They were friends first and foremost, and maybe that’s why they worked so well when they were together. Bucky hasn’t thought about it in years, but he still remembers. They sat on Steve’s bed and watched _Bringing Up Baby_ , and their first kiss was too warm and kind of gross because Steve was sick, but it was good. He felt the same heavy-but-light sensation in his stomach that he’s feeling now.

They watch _Bringing Up Baby_. Steve expounds upon the beauty and wonder that is Cary Grant, and Bucky listens for probably the hundredth time in his life. His arm also falls asleep because it’s trapped under Steve, but Steve makes this great purring noise when Bucky brushes his fingers up and down his spine, and that’s another thing he missed without even knowing it. 

* * *

They’ve been shopping for two hours already when they walk into Nordstrom’s. America announces that she has to go to the bathroom and can’t hold it long enough to make it to the other side of the mall, where the shoe store is. Bucky sits on a bench outside the family bathroom with Peter, moving the stroller slowly back and forth because he’s asleep and he’ll wake up if the stroller stops moving for too long. There are three bags hanging off the stroller already; two from Dick Blick, laden with paint and anything else Steve saw fit to buy in the hour and a half they were wandering around in that store. The other is from Yankee Candle; an air freshener, because Steve is apparently not immune to the weird odor floating around inside the minivan.

Bucky stares at Peter and feels the weirdest stab of jealousy. For someone who owns (owned?) so many clothes, Bucky is strangely repelled by shopping. How nice it would be to just do as Peter does, and fall asleep without consequence.

Steve ushers America out of the bathroom, drying his hands with one of those nonabsorbent brown paper towels ubiquitous of public bathrooms. He gives Bucky a sympathetic look. “We won’t be here long, I promise.”

“I’m getting my shoes, right?” America tugs at Steve’s coat sleeve.

“Yes, America,” Steve snaps, “for the sixth time, you are getting your shoes. Please don’t ask again; I’m losing my patience.”

“Sorry,” America mumbles, and starts picking at a stray thread on her jacket.

“I’ve got to get America her shoes before she explodes,” Steve sighs, rubbing his face, “and then I’ve got to go by Best Buy and see if they can figure out why my phone won’t let me take it off vibrate. After that, I need to see about getting a new shower curtain, because ours is moldy and gross, and…”

“Well geez, maybe you should just go to every store in the damn mall!” Bucky cries, and gives a sharp, sarcastic grin. “Sounds like you’re halfway there already. I’m sure you need something from the bookstore, and hey, why not duck into the damn Victoria’s Secret; can’t hurt, right?”

Steve scowls, and Bucky scowls right back. He’s tired, and his feet hurt, and he’s just watched Steve agonize over which shade of blue to buy for twenty minutes _and he’s justified in scowling, goddamn it._

“Alright, just…whatever. I’ll take the kids, why don’t you stay here? Just…just go away, Bucky; go sulk in the men’s department or something. I don’t need that crap right now.” He takes the stroller in one hand, America’s hand in the other and stomps off.

Bucky sits there for a long time, quietly fuming on that bench. Steve is the one in the wrong here, and he has no right to be angry. When he gets up, he wanders aimlessly. It’s been a long time since he’s been in a department store. Probably since he joined StarkTech as Junior VP and was turned on to the fact that having his measurements put on file at several different outlets and just calling up when the occasion arose for a new suit was far more convenient.

His feet carry him, perhaps because Steve’s suggestion stuck in his head or perhaps out of habit, to the men’s department. The color scheme of the Nordstrom’s men’s department seems to be neutrals with a lot of maple thrown in under low lighting. It kind of makes Bucky want to turn around and go right back to where he came from, but he is unwittingly drawn to a display of suits in a corner. The low lighting also makes it almost impossible to tell what the color and texture of the fabric is without being right on top of it, so Bucky wanders over, hands in pockets, and stares long and hard at a navy blue double-breasted number. There’s something almost militaristic about it. Bucky doesn’t usually go for that kind of thing, but it’s his color and he can imagine how it would extend the length of his arm, accentuate the tapering of his waist.

“You have excellent taste, sir.”

Without him noticing, a sales associate has come up behind him. Bucky glances over his shoulder and smiles at him; an older man wearing a relatively well-fitting grey suit on, although it could be more flattering on someone whose job it is to sell suits. All the same, Bucky says, “Thanks.”

Speculative tilt to his head, the sales associate asks, “Would you like to try it on?”

“Uh…” Bucky knows he should say no. He knows that he shouldn’t tempt himself in this life, where he wears sweatshirts and jeans, not Zegna and Armani. Then he thinks about Steve’s scowl earlier, him telling Bucky to just _go sulk in the men’s department_ , and a ball of spite rises in his throat. He glances back at the suit, then nods. “Yeah. Alright.”

And yeah, he does have pretty damn good taste.

“It’s perfect for your frame,” the salesman says, making eye-contact with Bucky over his shoulder in the mirror. This is another reason why Bucky doesn’t go to department stores anymore: hovering sales staff. He focuses on the cut of the suit rather than on the man standing over his shoulder. “Excellent choice of color, as well. It’s exactly the right hue for your skin tone.” He’s being really unsubtle, of course, but his job is making the sale. Heaps of flattery work on most people, especially those who would be shopping in a department store in the middle of Paramus.

Bucky turns to the side. “It could stand to be taken in an inch or so at the waist…the sleeves and legs are a bit too long…not a bad fit overall, though…” He buttons one button and turns back around, rotates his shoulders to situate the pads correctly, and runs his fingers through his hair. It’s still gelled back from earlier, and for a moment…

For a moment, he looks like a man from a different life. He closes his eyes and feels the fabric of the suit and lets himself pretend that the last week and a half had never happened, that he’s back in _his_ life, in _his_ closet, in _his_ suit.

“Wow. That suit looks…amazing on you.”

Then he opens his eyes, and there’s Steve in his tan parka halfway off his shoulders, ratty sweater and jeans. Peter is awake now and chewing on his spiders. America stares at him with too-big, too-knowing eyes. Part of him feels like shit for the rush of disappointment that goes through him.

Steve is smiling softly, earlier anger obviously forgotten. He steps closer, adding, “Like, off the charts _wow_.”

“Your partner has quite a keen eye, sir,” the salesman says to Steve. Yet another sales tactic. Bucky has been learning them at his own job, and the attempt is almost transparent. Convince the wife—or, in this case, husband—who will then convince the customer.

Steve ignores the salesman, instead telling Bucky, “You look like some kinda executive, Buck.”

Bucky looks back at himself in the mirror and silently agrees. Outwardly, he says, “You know, it’s amazing…wearing this suit actually makes me feel like a better person.” He turns to the side again, unbuttons it and dips a hand into the pocket. Nods at his reflection, like he’s literally acknowledging the Bucky of his other life. He announces, “I’m buying it,” and the look on the sales associate’s face is almost ecstatic. He reaches out to help Bucky slip out of the jacket, muttering about packing it up.

“Wait a second,” Steve says, holding up his hand. There’s a price tag dangling out of the jacket sleeve, which he grabs onto and flips over. His eyes just about boggle out of his head. “This suit is 2800 dollars, pal.” He says it like he thinks Bucky doesn’t realize that.

“America got new shoes,” Bucky says, eyebrows raised, pointing at the bag hanging off the stroller with _Kids’ Footlocker_ on the side.

“Those shoes cost _twenty-eight_ dollars,” Steve says, with a chuckle. There’s a nervous edge to his voice, though, like he’s not sure Bucky is joking this time. That’s good, because he’s not. “Now come on, take it off. The kids are getting hungry and it’s a school night. We’ll get Taco Bell or something, I know you like Taco Bell…” He wanders back over to the stroller and America, who’s starting to fall asleep standing up, holds her arms out. He picks her up under the armpits, holds her on his hip and gives a more pointed, less humorous look in Bucky’s direction. “Bucky. Come on.”

“No,” Bucky says slowly. Then again, stronger, “No.”

“ _No_?” Steve demands. His arms tighten around America. “No _what_?”

“No, I’m not gonna let you take this away from me,” Bucky says, and turns around so that he’s actually making eye-contact with Steve instead of his reflection.

“Excuse me?” Steve asks. Deadly quiet. His arms tighten around their—his, his, _his_ ; this is not Bucky’s life _these are not his kids_ —daughter. America whines but Steve is heedless. He has a look on his face that could peel paint and he’s starting up that heavy breathing thing he always used to do right before a screaming match. Or an asthma attack.

“Do you know what my life is like?” Bucky asks, and the salesman is inching slowly away, realizing a sour situation when he sees one. Bucky stalks closer. “I wake up before six every morning, _covered_ in dog saliva. I get the kids ready for daycare. I drive halfway across town to drop them off _at_ daycare because you’re off, doing what? Painting? Then I spend ten hours selling archery equipment, _retail_. The customers are mean and elitist and Natasha rides my ass all day every day. Then, when I come home from those _ten hours_ , I have to make Kate and America dinner, feed Peter then bathe him because he’s incapable of getting the food _in_ himself rather than _on_ himself. After that, I walk the dog, get the kids ready for bed, _put_ them to bed, get maybe six hours of sleep, and then start the whole process all over again. I’m sick of it. What’s in it for me? Why can’t I buy myself something nice for what I go through?”

“Wow,” Steve says, and his voice is level but he sounds…angry and disappointed and maybe just a bit broken. He hikes America up on his hip, both arms under her now, like he’s trying to pull her closer to himself and further from Bucky. “I’m sorry your life is such a crushing disappointment for you.”

“How is it not a disappointment for you?” Bucky demands. “I mean, Jesus, Steve! Was this really what you wanted out of life? Was _Paramus_ and an fifty-five grand a year combined income really what you wanted when you graduated college? And maybe it is, maybe it’s what _you_ wanted, but I got news for you: it ain’t what I wanted, _pal_. It’s an entire _universe_ away from what I wanted. I could have been ten times the man I am now, Steve, and I know it. I mean…” He turns away, runs his fingers through his hair. “I mean, how could you do this to me? How could you let me give up everything I wanted?” He thinks about what his other self’s motivations possibly could have been for not getting on that plane. Can’t come up with anything.

Steve is still standing there, rooted to the spot, breathing hard. His face is getting redder and redder and Bucky thinks he might cry, can’t decide if that’s the outcome he wanted or not, but Steve just growls, “Who _are_ you?”

For a minute, Bucky thinks that Steve has realized that he’s the wrong Bucky, that the jig is up. He realizes a split second later that what Steve is implying is so much worse. That he cannot reconcile the man standing before him with his husband, and thinks the man he loves has become a stranger. That he thinks his Bucky has disappeared forever, rather than just been replaced on a hopefully temporary basis. Bucky remembers telling himself that he wouldn’t ruin whatever his other self and Steve had, wouldn’t compromise their still remaining love for each other. So he tells the truth, because it’s the only thing he can do.

“I don’t know who I am,” he says, and it’s like he’s pleading. “That’s the point. I’ve completely lost myself. And…and I’m sorry that I was such a saint before and I’m such a…such a _prick_ now, but maybe I’m just not that guy anymore, Steve. Maybe I’m not the same guy I was when we got married.”

Steve fixes his jaw and bores a glare into a spot vaguely over Bucky’s shoulder. He clears his throat, and then clears it again, and sets down America. He clears his throat again.

“Maybe you’re not,” he says finally. He won’t make eye contact. “The guy I married wouldn’t need a 2800 dollar suit to feel like more of man.” He leans against the stroller and finally meets Bucky’s eyes. Bucky has gotten so used to Steve’s eyes being warm that he’s almost forgotten blue is a cool color, but now they’re colder than glaciers, and Bucky remembers. “But if that’s what you need, fine. _Buy_ the goddamn suit, James. We’ll take it out of the kids’ college fund.”

They don’t speak for several minutes. The salesman has disappeared. America is standing awkwardly in the no man’s land between Steve and Bucky, unsure of what to do with herself. Peter sleeps on, blissfully unaware, and Bucky considers his options. It’s no use, obviously, to buy the suit. It’ll only make Steve angrier, possibly ruin something for good, and he knows that he won’t be able to take it back with him when and if Sam sends him back to his own timeline. But for one shining, splendid moment, Bucky felt like his old self again, and it’s hard for him to give that up.

“Just forget it,” Bucky mutters eventually, and removes the suit jacket with too much force. “We’ll get Taco Bell. It’ll be the highlight of my damn week.”

Steve fixes him with one last look—something nasty and angry and hard—and walks away, pushing the stroller and pulling America behind him. Over her shoulder, America gives him a glance that’s almost betrayed. He looks down at himself, at the suit jacket he’s thrown on the floor, and muffles a shout in his hands.

* * *

He calls Steve four times between leaving Nordstrom’s and getting to the parking lot, because he doesn’t know where he’s gone and he can’t remember where they parked. Steve does not, for reasons that are obvious but no less vexing, pick up the phone. He wanders around the dimly-lit parking lot for twenty minutes until he finally spots the minivan at the very end of one row. He heads in that direction, and he’s looking at it from the side hidden by an SUV, so he doesn’t notice that form slumped against the tailgate until he’s almost right on top of the thing.

“Steve?” he calls. The stroller is next to him, half-folded up. “Steve, why are you…?”

Steve doesn’t reply. When a strange sound meets his ears, a high-pitched breathing noise, he realizes why. It’s been fifteen years since he’s seen Steve have an asthma attack, but not long enough to get that sound out of his memory. He hurries around the SUV, finds Steve sitting on the edge of the tailgate, bends down to get a look at his face. He’s pale, but his lips haven’t gone white, and Bucky can tell by the sound that he’s still getting some air into his lungs, that it’s not completely blocked.

“Hey, hey,” Bucky says, and puts his hands on Steve’s shoulders. There are tears on Steve’s cheeks, probably from exertion, but Bucky thinks he might have been crying. That he probably was crying, because of what happened in the store. That Bucky did this to him. “Shit, pal, just breathe. Please breathe.” He soothes a hand through Steve’s hair, cradles the back of his head. He cannot remember what he’s supposed to be doing to help. “Where’s your inhaler? Where’re the kids?”

“I can’t…” Steve heaves another breath. “I forgo—house…”

“You forgot your inhaler at home?” Bucky asks, and Steve nods. “Okay, okay, don’t panic, I…” He vaguely remembers something about an inhaler, pulling one out of his coat pocket, and he thinks that maybe it’s a college memory that he’s gotten confused with a recent one, but no. That memory is from a week ago, from when woke up in the wrong bed and in the wrong life. He doesn’t know why he had Steve’s inhaler, but he does remember where he put it when he took it out of his pocket.

He pulls away and says, “It’s okay, I got one, I got one for you, baby—“ and rushes to the driver’s side door, pulls it open. The kids are in the back, Peter still dead to the world and America holding Steve’s phone, playing some game or other on it. She looks up when he opens the door and frowns at him, but at least she doesn’t know what’s happening. He grabs the inhaler out of the cupholder, where he left it a week ago and proceeded to forget about it, and runs it back to Steve. He takes it in a shaking hand and takes the cap off, put it to his lips and inhales. Bucky never got used to the almost violent way that his body would lurch when he used his inhaler, and he certainly isn’t prepared for it after years of not seeing it; he flinches.

Bucky rubs his back as he holds in his breath, whole body tense as he unwillingly makes this horrible, high-pitched whining sound in the back of his throat. He coughs when he can’t hold it in anymore, pounds on his chest and takes another puff. This one stays down easier, and he breathes it out steadily, if roughly. Bucky keeps rubbing his back.

“I was trying to, uh,” Steve pants, “get the stroller folded, and uh…”

“I’ll get it,” Bucky mumbles. “S’okay.” He stands up and folds the stroller easily, leans it against the car and crouches down to  look into Steve’s eyes, because he’s insisting on not looking up. Rests his hands on either of Steve’s knees. “M’sorry, Stevie, I didn’t mean…I didn’t want…I don’t know what got into me, I…”

“I wanna go home, Bucky,” Steve sighs, sounding tired and miserable. “Just…let’s go home.”

“Okay,” Bucky says. Nods, and stands up. “Okay. Need help?”

“No,” Steve mutters. He stands up, and sways for a second but stays up. Tucks his inhaler into his own pocket and, at the same time, pulls the keys out of it and holds them out. “Here. You drive. I don’t wanna crash the damn car.”

“Okay,” Bucky says softly, and rounds the car to get in, slides the keys into the ignition and starts it. Steve slides in a moment later, pulls on his seatbelt and slumps his entire body against the door.

“Are we going to Taco Bell?” America asks.

“No, we’re going home,” Bucky says, as he puts the car in drive, backs out of the parking space. He thinks he knows how to get back to their neighborhood. He _thinks_. If he doesn’t, Steve will probably tell him. He’s always been the worst kind of backseat driver. That is, if he’ll ever start talking to Bucky again. “Daddy’s sick. I’ll make you a sandwich when we get home, okay sweetheart?”

“Okay,” America says, and proceeds to fall asleep five minutes into the drive home, her head slumped against the seatbelt.

For a long time, the only sounds in the car are the breathing of four people, two of them low with sleep and one slowly becoming less laborious and Bucky’s loudest of all in his own ears. He gets on the freeway and the steady _kerthunk_ of the tires going over seams in the pavement is oddly hypnotic, as are the lights flashing by every several hundred feet. It’s been awhile since he drove on the freeway.

Eventually, he says, “I’m sorry. For what happened back there. I…I don’t want to fight, and I didn’t want… _that_ to happen. I’m real sorry about that, Steve. You gotta believe me.” He glances at Steve out of the corner of his eye. “But, you’ve got to admit…in college, did you think…?”

Steve sets his jaw, and Bucky’s about to drop it because Steve clearly isn’t going to answer, but then Steve’s expression softens. He sighs and leans back against his seat, brings one leg up onto it and wrap his hands around his knee. “Life has thrown us a few curveballs, yeah. Not the least of which was becoming parents practically overnight, but…” he sighs, and turns around in his seat to look at America, at her peacefully sleeping face. “I’d do the same thing over again. And I like to think you would have to, if it’d been you who saw her in that dumpster.”

“Oh my God,” Bucky breathes, because he never thought to ask America how she came to be theirs, thought it was some typical story about going through an agency. Didn’t think that it would be something as horrific as being found as an infant in a dumpster. He’s heard of such things, but he always thought they were just urban legends. He says, “Who the fuck puts a baby in a dumpster?” because he cannot believe it, and he forgets himself in his shock.

Steve just sighs, “I ask myself that every day, bud.” He tilts his head to the side, stares at Bucky out of half-closed eyes. “I still remember how angry you were. I’d’ve been scared if it’d been directed at me, but it wasn’t. You were angry because she was so tiny and helpless, and you were angry at whoever it was that…that wanted to let her be taken out of this world after she’d only just gotten here. I was proud, because I said to myself…this is my husband. I married this man, and he’s…beautiful inside and out.” He glances over his shoulder at America again. “You might not have realized it, but I knew she was ours from the second I saw you hold her. You held her like you’d never let go.”

“I think I knew it too,” Bucky mumbles. Because he knows himself. Knows that spending ten more years would Steve would have only amplified his good qualities by the time America came around. His protectiveness, his sense of right and wrong.

“I think it all turned out for the best, though,” Steve says. “For how sudden it happened.”

“Yeah, I really like America,” Bucky says, with a nod.

“Well great, Buck. Maybe we’ll keep her,” Steve says, with a roll of his eyes, and wedges himself further into the corner of door and seat. Bucky glances over as a street light illuminates his face. He doesn’t look pissed, at least, just bemused.

“No, I mean…I love her. You know what I mean.” He reaches over and nudges Steve’s raised knee, then leaves it there. Steve shifts his leg, but only to settle the curve of Bucky’s palm evenly over his kneecap. “But we had some good times, right? Back then. Before the kids and New Jersey.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs after a minute. “I suppose we did.” He’s quiet for a minute, head against his seatbelt, just staring out the windshield. When he speaks again, it’s quiet, hushed. “D’you remember that place we used to go? Down in DUMBO.” It’s said with a soft smile. Whatever he’s thinking about, it must be a good memory.

“DUMBO?” Bucky mumbles, and he has to wrack his brains for what that even means. When it comes to him, he says, “Oh! In Brooklyn,” because he can’t believe that he couldn’t bring to mind what DUMBO meant. He grew up practically _in_ DUMBO, for God’s sake.

Next to him, Steve is giving him a strange look. Bucky clears his throat and nods, says, “Yeah. I mean, yeah, in Brooklyn. When we lived in Brooklyn.” Because they talked about that; moving to Brooklyn after college, getting a place, returning to their roots together. Sometimes he forgets that he and Steve both grew up in Brooklyn, less than twelve blocks from each other, but somehow never crossed paths until college. “Good times. Why’d we ever leave?”

“Well, I think we were kinda spooked after we found her in that dumpster. Didn’t wanna raise her where whoever put her there could find her and try to get her back.” He sighs and shrugs. “And, y’know. The car accident.”

“ _We were in a car accident_?” Bucky demands, before he can think about it, and clamps his teeth down over his lips a moment later. “I mean—“

“Stop kidding around, Bucky, I mean it. I’m still mad, and…” He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “But I’m…y’know, I’m still proud of you. For dropping everything and stepping in at the store. They probably would have lost it if you hadn’t.”

“So that’s why I work for Clint and Natasha,” he mutters. Steve gives him a short glare, like he’s doing it more because he feels obligated than any actual anger, and Bucky clears his throat, backtracks slightly. “I mean…yeah, that’s why I work for Clint and Natasha.”

This seems to satisfy Steve. He falls into silence, and Bucky gets off the freeway and enters the subdivision. When the car is in park in the driveway, and Bucky can finally look at him without worrying about taking his eyes off the road, Steve says, “I know moving to New Jersey wasn’t…wasn’t in the plan. But we did it for a good reason…a lotta good reasons. So…try not to regret it. Because I don’t.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, because he doesn’t think anything he could say right now would be the right thing. Stays silent and takes the keys out of the ignition. Neither of them moves immediately, choosing instead to remain for a few extra moments in the dark car, listening to the ticking of the engine as it cools and sitting still except for Bucky’s thumb tracing softly over the fabric of Steve’s jeans, Steve’s fingers whispering over Bucky’s knuckles. Something tightens in Bucky’s chest, because it’s so painfully sweet that it feels like he might break.

America stirs and thickly mumbles, “Are we home yet?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says softly. Takes his hand off Steve’s leg at last. “Yeah, we’re home.” He gets out of the car and gets America out, because she’s on his side, and lifts her up onto his hip. Her feet dangle at his knees, and he hitches her up until she moves her leg so he can walk.

She mumbles, “Are you still fighting?”

He glances over the hood of the car at Steve, who’s standing with Peter’s little button nose pressed under his chin, and murmurs, “No, we’re not fighting anymore.”

“I’m angry at you,” America grumbles into his coat collar.

“That’s alright,” Bucky sighs. Climbs the steps and juggles his keys in one hand and America in the other as he opens the door. “Daddy’s upset with me, too.” He turns on the light in the foyer, which makes it just light enough that he can see his way into the kitchen. In the kitchen, he has to turn on the lights, and America whines. “C’mon, don’t be like that. You have to eat something or you’ll be starving by the morning. What do you want? A sandwich?”

“Yeah,” she grumbles against his shoulder, so he makes her one, and she eats half of it before dropping her head on the table and whining. Bucky carries her upstairs and puts her to bed, tucks her in and leaves the door cracked and does everything he’s supposed to, and drops into bed in the dark, rests his head in his hands.

“I have something to say.”

Bucky looks up, straightens himself out and squints at Steve through the blackness. He’s closed the door. The only bit of light on him is coming in the window, from the automatic light on the garage. It’s enough to highlight the shimmer of his hair and a strip of his face but not much else. Bucky murmurs, “Okay,” and looks at the shadows that are all Bucky can see of his eyes.

“And I don’t want you to say anything until I’m done. Just listen.”

“…Okay.”

Steve shuffles forward, gets close enough that Bucky can see his face even through the dark, close enough that he’s practically between Bucky’s knees. He fidgets with Bucky’s collar for a moment, smoothes down his hair, and says, “I love you.”

It seems as though he isn’t going to continue, and Bucky is confused, because it seemed like Steve was gearing up for something earth-shattering there. He opens his mouth, starts, “I kn—“

“Bucky, please,” Steve snaps, closing his eyes and raising his voice just slightly, not enough to wake the children but enough to make his point. Bucky closes his mouth and Steve takes a steadying breath, starts again. “I love you, Bucky. I know I’m not perfect—far from it. I’m stubborn and I can be mean and I’m… _short_.” He chuckles, like he’s laughing at his own joke, but Bucky doesn’t. “But I love you, and I guess I always thought that was enough. So you’ve got to tell me if it’s not, because I’d like a chance to fix it. Maybe I’m codependent, but I dunno what I’d do without you anymore. You’re my best friend. You’re…when I had nothing…I had you.” Steve bites a lip, and gives a little nod to signal that he’s done.

Bucky clears his throat, touches Steve’s waist and hips, fiddles with a button on his shirt. “Believe me, Steve…what’s going on, it’s not anything that can be fixed.”

“Don’t say that,” Steve says, and it sounds a lot like he’s begging. “Please. You can’t tell me that you can’t at least try? You can’t let almost fifteen years of marriage end without at least _trying_ , bud. We have kids. We have kids, and Peter isn’t technically mine, and if we—“

“Steve!” Bucky cries, and grabs his face to make him stop talking. “Stop. You gotta stop, pal. Do you wanna have another asthma attack?” He traces his thumbs over Steve’s cheeks until Steve calms down, and Bucky licks his lips and then presses them once, softly, barely there against Steve’s. “What I’m saying is, it’s not anything you can fix for me. It’s something I’ve got to deal with myself. It’s nothing you did wrong, it’s nothing I blame you for. I…need to figure out what I need, and it’s something I’ve got to figure out myself.” He pulls all the way back, pats Steve’s hips. “Alright?”

“I can help,” Steve murmurs. “Let me. Tell me how.”

“You can help,” Bucky says, tracing his index fingers up and down the seams on the outside of Steve’s thighs, “by being you. By being Steve Ro—Barnes.”

Steve gives a low chuckle in the back of his throat. “You’ve known me as Steve Barnes longer than Steve Rogers. It’s weird how often you forget.”

“I dunno, maybe it’s just…” Bucky leans back on his arms, and Steve finally gets off his feet, flops down on the bed next to Bucky and lays back against the mattress. Bucky never finishes his thought. Instead, he rolls half on top of Steve, liking the warmth of his body below him, liking that Steve is the first person in years that he can just reach out and touch without consequences. It’s been a long time since he was able to indulge his more tactile urges. Softly, he mumbles, “Hey, why’d you take my last name, anyway? Did you ever tell me? Why’d you take Barnes instead of me taking Rogers, or…us hyphenating or something?”

“Because I didn’t wanna make your name any longer than it had to be. I don’t think James Buchanan Barnes-Rogers would fit on a line or in a box.”

“You’re probably right,” Bucky agrees, and they laugh.

“But in all seriousness, I guess the reason is…I’m a traditionalist. Families are supposed to all have one name, you know? I always thought of that as the ideal, and I _wanted_ that. I grew up in foster care. Everyone had a different last name and we were never really a _family_. I guess I always associated being a family with having a family name, and I wanted that for us when we got married. As for why I decided to be a Barnes instead of asking you to be a Rogers…we both had different things we needed out of our marriage. I needed to belong somewhere. I was an orphan; I never knew my father, barely knew my mother, so I didn’t even have any ties to the name Rogers. And you needed something to call your own. Your mother was all you had and you were lost for a long time after she died.

“It’s all steeped in…a lot of pointless symbolism, I guess, but weddings are all about symbolism, right? So that’s why.” He soothes his fingers through Bucky’s hair. “That’s why.”

“M’kay,” Bucky mumbles, and they fall asleep like that, widthwise along the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this week!  
> I'd love to hear what you guys have to say about this story, by the way. I'm not one to beg for comments, and I promise this is the one and only time I'll mention it, but please consider commenting if you have the time or inclination! Every little bit helps.  
> As always, feel free to follow me on Tumblr under the same username.


	6. Chapter 6

They have matching red white and blue bowling shirts that say ‘Howling Commandos’ on the front. Steve’s says ‘Captain America’ across the shoulders on the back. Bucky’s says ‘Sergeant Barnes’. Bucky finds them in the back of the closet and finally, _finally_ understands what those guys were talking about at that party. Then Steve comes in and sees him holding them, says, “Oh, good. You found them. Just in time, too,” and Bucky’s confused all over again.

“Just in time?” Bucky mutters, offering no resistance as Steve takes the smaller shirt from him and strips off his sweater, begins to button the bowling shirt over his grey undershirt.

“The _game_ , Bucky,” Steve says incredulously, as he clambers towards the mirror over the detritus that always seems to cover their bedroom floor. Bucky doesn’t even know what most of it _is_. It seems to consist majorly of toys and stuffed animals, but he’s never seen either of the kids play with any of it. The periodic sweater or pair of jeans lays limp, like whoever took it off threw it haphazardly and forgot about it. Steve keeps making noises about cleaning it up but he doesn’t ever get around to it. “The Battle of the Sexes? Don’t look at me like that; you know Dum Dum is the one who came up with that name.” He postures in front of the mirror, frowns and sighs, “I think I lost weight again. This thing fits me like a damn potato sack.”

Bucky crosses the room, stepping the same path of avoidance as Steve had, and stands behind him in the mirror. He really doesn’t think bowling shirts look good on anyone, but he tilts his head to the side and says, “Dunno. I think you look fine.”

“Yeah?” Steve mumbles, smoothing down the shirt in front. Bucky sets his hand over Steve’s, pulls them to his hips, rests his chin on Steve’s shoulder. Over the last few weeks, he’s been warming up to his role as husband. Casual affection comes easier to him. Steve grins at him in the mirror, turns slightly, presses his lips to Bucky’s jaw. “What’re you doing?”

“Trying to get this thing off you,” Bucky whispers, moving his hands up under Steve’s shirt.

“Bucky, stop,” Steve laughs, swatting his hands away. “It’s the middle of the day.”

“Ever heard of a nooner, bud?”

“Parents of little children don’t take _nooners_ , Bucky.” Steve chuckles and pulls away, lifts the shirt over his head and sniffs it. He rears his head away with a frown. “Hmm, that’s musty. We need to wash these things. Could you do that now?

“Yeah,” Bucky sighs, catching the shirt from the air after Steve tosses it to him.

Not so casual affection does not come as easy to him as he’d like. He's come out on the other side of his internal conflict with the decision that, as a married man with an established sex drive, he's likely going to be expected to initiate intimacy every once in awhile. Steve would think things were fishy if he didn't, and Bucky…wants to, strangely enough. Steve is truly beautiful, and sometimes it does strange things to Bucky's stomach that are increasingly hard to ignore. He remembers these sensations from his relationship with Steve, feels comfortable with labeling them as a particular type of arousal that only Steve inspires in him. Every time he tries to act on it, however, Steve is unresponsive. Bucky is starting to wonder if their libidos will ever overlap.

It’s possibly because Steve is working into the small hours of the morning on something in his basement studio, and he’s been taking care of Peter during the day as well now that he’s working from home again. Bucky likes to feel sorry for himself, though.

He throws the shirts and what laundry is in their hamper into a laundry basket. Stands there for a minute and stares into the basket, psyching himself up for facing the washing machine, which he’s pretty sure has a vendetta against him and is actively trying to kill him. He moves to pick it up from the end of the bed, but Steve gets to him before he reaches it. Hands snuck into Bucky's pockets, Steve gets up on his tiptoes at Bucky’s front, and Bucky’s hands find themselves at Steve’s back instinctively.

“You gonna win that trophy back from the girls for us tomorrow?” Steve murmurs.

“Yeah,” Bucky says mindlessly, even though he has no idea how to bowl. He thinks he’s gone bowling twice in his life, neither of which was in the last ten years.

“Might have something for you if you do.” Steve is still up on his toes, swaying back and forth to keep himself up. It’s kind of like dancing.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Bucky murmurs, and leans down to kiss him. “Okay,” he says again, against his lips.

“Okay,” Steve agrees. “Go do the laundry.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, pulls away and goes to do battle with the washing machine, grinning.

* * *

They do not with the trophy back from the girls. In fact, Bucky loses them the first game out of three so spectacularly that they actually banish him to go sit with Clint and all of the children on the cosmic bowling side of the alley. He and Clint spend two hours buying games of bowling, eating greasy pizza, soothing kids whom have slipped on the wax of the lanes, and drinking beer that they have sneaked over from the other concessions.

“More beer?” Bucky mumbles, holding up the empty pitcher.

Clint sighs at his empty glass, raises an eyebrow and shakes his head. “Nah. I gotta drive home. Uh…go get a pitcher of water, actually. They’re probably almost done.” He leans back against the pleather bowling alley chair he’s sitting in. Around them, no less than six children—Kate and Peter included—are slumped in various states of unconscious. Some are just exhausted; some are feeling the effects of spectacular sugar comas.

“You got it,” Bucky says. He extracts himself from the bench and shuffles over to the other side of the alley, because if he returns the empty beer pitcher to the cosmic bowling concessions, which only sell pizza and soft drinks, there’ll be problems. As he walks by the others, he takes a swing by Steve’s chair, leans down over him and gives him a sympathetic smile. “How’s it going, bud?”

“Not…great,” Steve sighs. From the women’s lane, there comes the sound of pins crashing down and then a lot of shouting. Steve informs him, “That means they just won. Bury me.”

“No can do, pal,” he murmurs, and presses a kiss to Steve’s cheek. “Gotta get some water so we can get those kids sobered up. They’re all gonna sleep like rocks tonight, at least.” He presses another kiss to Steve’s hair and stands up straight, drifts over to the concession stand and requests a pitcher of water. Next to him, that blonde women who may or may not be married to Dum Dum Dugan orders a pitcher of beer for the victors of the evening.

“Hi there, James,” she says, and gives him that same weird, simpering smile that he remembers being so disconcerted by at Christmastime.

“Hey…Yolanda,” he says slowly. Then he realizes that her name is on her bowling shirt. “Er, Yelena. I meant Yelena.”

She forces out a laugh that’s so fake Bucky almost hurts for her. She touches his arm, smiles and says, “So why are you so off your game tonight? You played really well last year. You have the flu or something?” She keeps touching Bucky, so she obviously isn’t worried about catching anything. Part of him wonders if she just wants to rub her victory in his face, but he’s pretty sure that’s not it. He’s pretty sure she wants to rub _something_ in his face, but he doesn’t think it’s that. “If you do, I could probably give you a home remedy.”

Oh yes. He knows exactly what she’s referring to. He’s very familiar with that particular brand of home remedy. He thinks there’s a Marvin Gaye song about it.

“Oh, are you a nurse or something?” he asks. Because saying _please go away_ would probably be too much.

“I can be anything you want me to be,” she whispers, and Bucky really wants her to go away, but it’s pretty clear that she wants something from him.

He’s not interested. He’s really _not_ , even though she’s exactly what he would have gone for a few weeks ago, in another life. She’s slight and blonde and pretty, cleans up well and obviously has a sexual interest in him. If he was James Barnes, executive and millionaire, he’d probably have already bedded her and told her he’d call without any plans to actually do so. But he’s not that man at the moment. Right now, he’s Bucky Barnes, husband and father, and while he’s in this other man’s shoes he can’t do anything to mess it up.

Which begs the question: does his other self have a thing with this woman? She certainly shows enough ire for Steve to be the woman on the side, but Bucky isn’t sure if he would be capable of such a thing, even after five plus years stuck in suburbia.

Something, possibly the kind of curiosity that killed the cat, makes him ask, “Look…are we…?” because he’s got to know.

“Are we what?” Yelena asks. The simpering look has finally started to fall off her face.

“Is there…something going on…between us?”

“Are we being honest?” she murmurs.

“It would help if we were,” Bucky says, with a nod, and doesn’t pay attention when the pitcher of water is placed next to his elbow.

“Okay…” Yelena sighs, and presses a hand to her chest, and nods like she’s psyching herself up for something. “Right, okay. We’re finally going to put all the cards on the table. Alright. Let’s just say…when I know you’re going to be somewhere, I make myself look just a little nicer. And I never go hunting with Tim, but there are two sets of archery equipment sitting in the garage that have barely been used. And you’re the only one who seems to show me any kindness here, and I like that.” She gives a pout, and Bucky can tell she’s trying to manipulate him, but doesn’t stop her. “I mean, you would think I was an evil stepmother with the way the boys treat me. I just hate it.” Her hand goes to his chest, and he glances over his shoulder towards Steve, but he’s not looking. He lets her leave it there. “So if you’re asking if I’d like it to be more…the answer is yes. And Steve would never have to know.”

“Hmm,” Bucky hums.

She must take this as encouragement. She pats down her hair and rubs a hand along her red cheeks, clears her throat. “So…why don’t you stop by tonight? Tim’s going out with some of the boys, and he already said he was going to stay at Jim’s. The kids are at their grandmother’s. So…come by.” She takes the pitcher of beer she ordered and carries it off.

Bucky is still shaking his head, both at himself and Yelena, when Natasha intercepts him in front of the entrance to the cosmic bowling side.

“Saw you talking to Yelena,” she says, head tilted to the side. “What’d she have to say?”

“Oh, plenty,” Bucky mutters, staring deeply into the pitcher of ice water like it’s going to offer him advice. It stays stubbornly silent. “She, uh…heh, weird thing. She wants to have an affair with me. Apparently.”

“I could have told you that,” Natasha says, her jaw set. Bucky can tell this is not going to be a simple conversation, so he sets down the pitcher of water on a nearby table and sits down at it. Natasha sits across from him, leans her elbows on the table and frowns at him. “In fact, you should have known that too. Why does this come as a surprise?”

“Well, it didn’t, not really,” Bucky mumbles. Scratches the back of his neck. “But she was…really forward this time. She, uh, told me that I should come by tonight.” He folds his arms across his chest, stares out over the bowling alley, sighs deeply. “Should I tell Dum Dum? I mean, he has a right to know this kind of stuff, right? That his wife is…y’know.”

For a moment, Natasha is silent. Her face doesn’t read very easily, but Bucky is used to that by now; used to having to wait out her silences to find out what it is that she actually has on her mind. He’s rewarded for his patience when she says, “Do you think it would actually make a difference? I think Tim probably knows that there’s something off about their relationship. I mean…” she sighs. “You know she’s Russian, right? Like me. Only difference is I’ve been a naturalized citizen since the age of six and she only gained her citizenship two years ago. I should know; my father is her immigration lawyer.” She gives him a strange look, obviously intended to be significant but hard to read because Bucky really doesn’t know how to read her yet.

“Obviously, I don’t know anything about this, because my father didn’t tell me anything because it would be a huge violation of privacy, but if I _did_ know anything about it, I’d tell you that two years ago her green card lapsed. She was going to be deported, and by that point she’d been in this country for ten years. Do you know how much of a shock it would be for someone who’d spent an entire third of their life in America to go back to Russia?”

“Pretty big, I’m figuring,” Bucky says. He spent a week in Moscow during his stint with Hydra. It was cold and wet and he could literally do nothing that wasn’t sanctioned by the people he worked for, and it’s cemented in his memory as probably one of the worst weeks of his life. The worst week would probably be the one right after faceplanting into this new reality, but he’s not sure if this is technically part of his life.

“Yeah,” Natasha agrees. “So, Yelena panics, finds the first middle-aged widowed single father that’s gullible enough to have her, and the rest is history.” Natasha glances around him, obviously closely examining the group of their neighbors and friends still gathered around lanes eight and nine. “Look, Yelena’s smart. I’ve known her for a long time. I know that she comes off as…vapid and gullible and harmless. But she knows exactly what she’s doing. She has her citizenship now; there’s no reason to stick around with Tim. She’s looking for an out. And Tim…he isn’t as smart. If he saw her with you, even just doing that giggly-flirty thing she does, he’ll start thinking something. Steve probably won’t because Steve is…Steve is Steve, let’s be honest. He’s too trusting. But Tim is the kind of person who would be ready to file papers if he even suspected something was wrong and you? You'd be the guy that broke up a marriage. It would be messy, it would be dramatic, and it would make living here _actual hell_ for you and your family.”

“Yeah, but if I _told_ the guy that his wife was—“

“What kind of guy,” Natasha says slowly, “would want to hear from a younger, frankly more attractive guy that his wife was trying to have an affair with him? The answer is nobody, James. It would fix the problem, yeah, but it would just give Tim a different reason to resent you.” She sighs, sweeps all her hair over one shoulder. “Look, you know how that thing happened between us in high school?”

Bucky squints at her, confused. He was almost certain that the splitting point of this alternate universe was him getting on that plane to Germany, but maybe it was before, maybe this is just an entirely different universe—

Then he looks at Natasha, looks at her _really_ closely, and realizes that he does know her. There was no Natasha Barton in his high school, true enough, but there was a Natasha Romanov. She had black hair at the time, but he thinks she mentioned something about it being dyed that color. They were also sixteen and fifteen and looked very different, and he hadn’t seen her in probably eighteen years by the time he first slapped eyes on her outside her house on Christmas day, so he can’t really be blamed. But now he remembers. He remembers being fifteen and drunk and fumbling his fingers up underneath a girl’s top for the first time.

“My God,” he breathes, “I’d almost forgotten about that.”

Natasha smirks. “I’d be insulted, but I know how drunk you were that night. But how do you think Clint would feel if I told him about that? To be fair, Clint and Tim don’t exactly have the same temperament, but you can imagine that he’d feel weird about it, right? Most people can’t help cross-examining situations like that.” With that, she stands up, comes to his side and squeezes his shoulder. “He’s going to find out one way or another. Don’t be the one to tell him. Don’t sacrifice yourself for someone like Yelena.”

“You know me, Nat,” Bucky mutters, “I’m not really the self-sacrificing type.”

Natasha squints at him, tilts her head to the side, and announces, “Okay, that’s probably the biggest lie you’ve ever told, but I’ll let you tell yourself that.”

He watches her walk back over to the women, pour herself some of the beer and shoot Yelena a narrow-eyed look before he gets up and carts the water back over to the cosmic bowling side. All of the kids are now slumped around Clint, and it takes them fifteen minutes to pick all the kids up, get them to drink some water and return them to their parents.

“It was good to have someone on Daddy Watch with me this time around,” Clint says, standing in the breezeway to the bowling alley, Kate on his hip and Natasha at his side. “You should have bad days more often, man. Feels like forever since we hung out.” He holds out his fist, which Bucky bumps with the hand that isn’t supporting America on his own hip. He adds, “You too, Cap,” and does the same to Steve.

“Yeah, man,” Bucky says. “We should all do something sometime. Without, y’know, the kids and the goofy outfits.” He glances pointedly down at his own bowling shirt and receives a kick to the shin from Steve for his efforts, but he glances over and realizes that Steve is also hiding a smile behind Peter’s hair, and smirks to himself.

Natasha gives him a look of significance, and he offers a short smile in return.

“Yeah, we’ll try to arrange something. Hopefully before June, because God knows we won’t be getting out much for awhile.” Clint and Steve chuckle, and Natasha just looks kind of amused.

“What happens in June?” Bucky inquires, glancing between the other three.

“June twelfth, man,” Clint says. When Bucky continues staring at him blankly, he adds, “Nat’s due date.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, and tries to make it look like he knew that. “Right, yeah.” To be honest, he’s forgotten that Natasha is pregnant. He glances at her stomach. Still flat. “Yeah. I knew that.”

Steve chuckles and starts trying to usher Bucky out the door without either of his hands. “Alright, I don’t think the kids are the only ones who need some sleep. Let’s go, pal.” He nudge the tips of his shoes against Bucky’s heels until he walks out the door with a final wave to the other two.

The bowling alley, in complete counterpoint to the church, is only ten minutes away. Steve drives home because he thinks that Bucky is either too tired or too tipsy to do so. Bucky lets him because Bucky _knows_ that his blood alcohol content is probably too high to be on the road with two little children in the car. He might have drank more than half of the pitcher of beer he and Clint had. He’s also pretty tired from running around after a dozen little kids, so he’s grateful for the reprieve of huddling against the door and resting his eyes.

When they come in the door, Steve turns on the foyer light, says, “I need to do some work before bed. Can you put the kids to bed?” Bucky hums his assent, tries to maneuver so that he can take Peter’s little parka off without waking him up. Steve takes America’s scarf, hat and coat off and then his own, crouches down in front of her and kisses her. “Go up to bed, sweetheart. Daddy’s gonna tuck you in. You can take a bath in the morning.”

“But it’s Saturday,” America whines. “My bedtime isn’t until ten on Saturday.”

“It’s almost ten anyway, baby,” Steve says, and stands up with another kiss to her head. “Go to bed.”

America continues whining as she watches Bucky puts pajamas on Peter and lay him down to sleep with the mobile and nightlight on. She whines for a story, which Bucky only gets one-fourth of the way through before America’s head hits the pillow like a lead weight. Bucky would be afraid she’d passed out if he didn’t know how overtired kids can be. Granted, a month ago he didn’t, but he only needed to learn the lesson of what happens when you let a five-year-old stay up two hours past her bedtime once. So he doesn’t worry, just folds the book and sets it on the nightstand next to her bed, turns on _her_ nightlight and leaves the door cracked as he leaves, chuckling quietly.

The basement isn’t fully finished like Clint and Natasha’s, but there’s a portion right at the bottom of the stairs that Steve has set up as a studio area. He has tarps set down and two extra lights plugged in and focused so that they shine on the canvas. There is an empty playpen to his left, where Peter plays while Steve is working during the day. At the moment, Steve is sitting on a tall metal stool in front of a canvas, painting towards the top.

He’s put on his glasses—Bucky has learned that he doesn’t like wearing contacts while painting—and taken off the terrible bowling shirt, thank God. Instead he wears a sweatshirt that Bucky had on yesterday and left draped over the back of the couch. It looks good on him, even if he had to pull the sleeves up above his elbows so they don’t hang down into what he’s doing. He looks up from his work, small paintbrush held carefully between his thumb and first two fingers, and smiles. “Hey. Kids asleep?”

“Yeah,” Bucky mumbles, and comes around to stare at the canvas from behind Steve’s back. A pair of women he's never seen before in wedding dresses. He tips his head to the side, mumbles, “So who’s this?”

“Just some people who commissioned me,” Steve mumbles, glancing at the top corner of the canvas, where he’s pinned a photograph of the image he’s painting. “I’ve had ten people email me in the past two weeks about doing wedding portraits. I knew that flier in the community center was a bad idea.”

“Um…why?” Commissions are paid work, right? They’re work he does for money?

“Because eight out of the ten people who called did not seem to realize that sitting for a portrait takes way longer than sitting for a photographer,” Steve mutters, and sets down the paintbrush to rub his brow. “They wanted to do it over an afternoon, with their entire bridal parties. Obviously I cannot fit, nor would I want, that many people in this basement. I had to explain to them that I would have to do it over several sittings, I would have to schedule time at the studio, and that it takes two weeks for the paintings to dry. Almost every person I explained that to yelled at me. These people were the only two who didn’t, and they don’t have time to sit for a portrait, so they mailed me a picture. It’s not ideal, but I’ll get two-hundred dollars for it.”

He scratches the side of his nose and leaves behind a smear of blue paint, but doesn’t appear to notice it. Bucky steps over the edge of the tarp and up to Steve’s side, says, “You’ve got a little something…” and swipes at Steve’s nose. It only makes the smear worse.

“You get it?” Steve asks, and rubs the side of his nose again. The entire left side of his nose is now covered in blue paint.

“Um…yup. Yeah.” Bucky nods, and then laughs because Steve touches his nose _again_. He takes Steve’s wrist in hand and says, “Wait, wait—“ and takes his phone out of his pocket, switches it to the camera application and turns it towards Steve. He laughs as Steve tries to rub off the paint off.

“Stop laughing, jerk!” Steve demands, and when Bucky doesn’t, swipes a finger through one of the colors on his pallet and then over Bucky’s forehead. Bucky makes a loud noise, something like a shriek—but manlier; definitely manlier—and takes two big steps back.

“Steve!” he cries, wiping at his forehead. All it does, of course, is smear the paint all over his forehead and the back of his hand, and when he pulls it away and sees the color—scarlet—he adds, “I look like a murder victim!” He looks up, sees that Steve is holding out hands that are now covered in a dark purple that may or may not be from the scarlet/blue combination. Bucky backs up again. “No. No.”

“Aw, c’mon Buck,” Steve coaxes, low in the back of his throat. It goes straight through Bucky’s ears, down his spine and pools in his lower stomach. “Lemme give you a kiss, pal. Run my fingers through your hair.”

“Okay, your fingers ain’t gettin’ anywhere near my hair right now, punk,” Bucky says, and backs away as far as he can. It’s at that point that the backs of his ankles hit the stairs and he trips, falls on his butt on the third or fourth stair—he can’t tell; all he knows is that it actually kills his tailbone—and gives another one of those manly shrieks as Steve leans down over him, holding his palms out and up. He smirks.

“Gotcha,” he murmurs, and smacks both his hands on Bucky’s cheeks.

“I always knew you were evil, Stevie—“ Bucky grumbles thickly, cheeks and lips mashed together by Steve’s hands. “Nothing that looks that sweet on the outside can be so pure on the inside. Everyone knows that things that look sweet are usually sour—“

“You’re making no sense,” Steve whispers, and moves his fingers up into Bucky’s hair with a grin that’s definitely not innocent, definitely not pure. He steps up onto the first step, throws one leg over Bucky’s lap and sits. Bucky can feel the oily wetness of the paint on his scalp seeping into his hair as Steve moves his fingers slowly back towards the base of Bucky’s skull. Very seriously, Steve says, “I’ve always wondered what you’d look like as a blue hair.”

“Oh my God,” Bucky groans. Lets his head fall back against the stairs, almost cracks his skull against it but for Steve’s hands there. “This paint is purple, it’s not even blue, I knew your colorblindness would be a problem when you became an artist—“ he scrapes some of the paint off his cheeks, smears it over Steve’s chin and forehead. “There, how d’you like it? Heh? There y’go, the artist becomes the art.” He grins, watches Steve squeeze his eyes shut and drop his mouth open as his golden bangs fall into the purple on his forehead. “Purple’s definitely your color, pal.”

Steve smiles, grins open-mouthed with his eyes closed and his hands still in Bucky’s hair, his fleshy bottom resting on Bucky’s knees. Bucky sneaks his hands down Steve’s thighs, up his hips and hooks his fingers into the belt loops on Steve’s jeans. He yanks on them until Steve comes closer, knees on the step below the one Bucky sits on, groins aligned. Steve asks, “The kids are definitely asleep, right?”

“Out like lights,” Bucky confirms, and pulls Steve’s head down to his, slots their open mouths together. Steve slides his hands out of Bucky’ hair and down to his jaw, digs the pad of his fingers into the soft skin behind his ears and under the curve of his lower mandible, splays the fingers of his left hand out over one side of Bucky’s face while the others run through his hair again. Bucky moves his hands up underneath the sweatshirt Steve’s wearing, under his undershirt, presses them flat against warm skin and leaves purple handprints.

Their teeth clack together clumsily. Steve sucks on Bucky’s upper lip and moves his thumb, slick with paint, over his cheekbone. Bucky makes a slick trail from the small of Steve’s back underneath Steve’s jeans, cups two handfuls of that sweet, pert ass and squeezes. He isn’t sure if he or Steve groans louder.

“Say it, Bucky,” Steve breathes, and lets his hands move down, smearing purple over the whitest part of the bowling shirt Bucky’s still wearing, right over the OWL in Howling and the MMA in Commandos. Bucky doesn’t care. It might even be a gift to mankind if the shirt was ruined.

“Say what?” Bucky asks, even as he slips his hands out the back of Steve’s pants and moves around to the front. He flicks open the first three buttons, remembering how much he loves Steve's preference for button flies. There’s something hot, something undeniably sexy about popping open those buttons one by one, and the little whimper that Steve gives in tandem with the dull click of a metal button sliding out of its denim hole. Steve gives an even more gorgeous sound when Bucky slides his fingers up between his legs, middle and ring finger tracing down the seam of his jeans, heel of his hand pressed against Steve’s hardness.

“You know what I like to hear,” Steve whispers to his cheek, lips dragging wet and obscene.

“Yeah, I know what you like to hear,” Bucky breathes against his collarbone, entire body singing with anticipation, kneading between Steve’s legs. “You make me hot, baby. Been such a bad boy, Stevie, want you to punish me—“ He stops, because Steve is pulling back in that way that means he actually, really wants to be let go of. He opens his eyes, looks at Steve’s face, and can practically see the passion draining from it. Bucky backtracks so hard it gives him whiplash. “I mean…you’re…that’s not it?”

“It’s shocking how _not it_ that was,” Steve mutters. He gets off Bucky’s lap, removes every inch of himself from Bucky, stands there at the bottom of the steps, buttoning his pants up. There’s blue and purple paint everywhere, including a sloppy purple handprint that starts at the waistband of his jeans and disappears between his thighs. His hair is slicked back from his face by paint covering his bangs. He looks completely undone, but he’s frowning like…well, like he’s angry and covered in paint. He mutters, “Nice one, Bucky. Real nice.”

“What?” Bucky asks, and lets Steve go up the stairs around him, “You make me hot…”

He wants to say something, something like _that’s what you liked in college_ , but he keeps his mouth shut through his greater wisdom. In all of his lust, all of his eagerness, he’s forgotten that the Steve of now is fifteen years removed from the Steve of college. That a lot of things are the same but some things are very, very different, and the sexual practices of a twenty-year-old hardly ever overlap with those of a married thirty-five-year-old with two small children.

Steve snaps, “Take a damn shower before you come to bed,” and slams the basement door behind him. Bucky groans and lays belly-up on the steps for a long time, skin crawling with the feeling of oil paint on his face and neck and scalp. What had felt sexy underneath Steve’s fingertips now just feels cold and slimy. There two smears of paint over each side of his chest, one around the side of his waist. He’s almost afraid to look in the mirror, but when he finally gets up and walks into the basement bathroom, he sighs in resignation at his own reflection. Purple and scarlet paint smeared over his face, cheeks, jaw and neck. Hair sticking up with it. He tries to get the worst of it off in the sink, and is relatively successful with his skin, but he knows he’s going to be pulling flecks of purple out of his hair for weeks.

Weeks. Jesus, he doesn’t know how much longer he can deal with being here.

Upstairs, something draws him through the mudroom and into the garage. There’s nothing in here but assorted tools, half a dozen boxes labeled ‘ART SUPPLIES,’ some bins that probably remain from the move from Brooklyn to New Jersey. Bucky doesn’t know what’s in them, has never thought to ask. Doesn’t think it would be a good idea if he did.

In one corner, America’s bike from Christmas sits lonely. She hasn’t had a chance to ride it yet; it hasn’t been warm enough. On the left handlebar, the bell glints innocently. Bucky stands over the bike for a long time, staring at that bell, and finally reaches down. Rings it once, twice, thrice.

Just loud enough that it bounces off the walls of the garage, Bucky says, “Hello? Is anyone listening? Sam?” He rings the bell again, runs his hands through his hair, where he can still feel the oily residue of paint. “This…this isn’t working. I don’t know what you want from me!” He spins around, kicks at one of the bins because he doesn’t think America would appreciate him kicking her bike. “Damn it, what am I supposed to be _doing_? What’s the point of this?! _Tell me_!”

The only response he hears is the whistling of the wind against the siding of the garage, and Liberty’s clacking tags as she runs through the house, pokes her head around the corner and pants loudly in his direction. Seeing her, Bucky remembers that he hasn’t yet walked her tonight. He stomps up the two stairs the mudroom and out into the foyer,  grabs her leash off the hook by the door and clips it to her collar. She’s practically vibrating with the excitement of being walked.

“C’mon, girl,” he mutters, pulling on his coat, “maybe one of us can get some relief tonight.” If he says it loud enough to perhaps be heard in the bedroom at the top of the stairs, so be it. He doesn’t slam the door, though. The kids are asleep.

* * *

It’s not a very long walk. It’s so cold outside that his cheeks start to sting after only going fifteen feet down the walkway. Even Liberty must think it’s far too cold to be out long; she does her business after walking half a block, and Bucky turns right back around and ushers both himself and the dog back into the house. Liberty runs up the stairs, probably to curl up next to the radiator at the end of the hallway. Bucky watches her, considers whether he’s ready to face Steve. Decides he isn’t and walks into the living room instead, where he finds himself staring at a bookshelf full of what appear to be home movies.

The sides of the DVD boxes are all written on in Sharpie, some of them in Bucky’s own relatively neat handwriting but most in Steve’s; tall, narrow and looping. The kind of handwriting an artist should have. It took him a bit of relearning to be able to read Steve’s handwriting again. For the first few weeks in this place, he stared at every grocery list Steve gave him like he imagines archeologists stared at the Rosetta Stone. Now he can read it with relative ease once again. The titles all follow a general theme: _America 4 th birthday. Peggy/Gabe Wedding. DC Trip 2007. Peter birth._ One in particular catches his eye.

_July 4, 2014 (Bucky Proposes)_

He pulls it down, opens it up. Steve has scrawled the same thing on a blank DVD cover. He pops it carefully out of the case and slides it into the DVD player, turns on the TV.

First, there’s a lot of whip-lash inducing movements from the camera, and then a shot of nothing but grass as someone who sounds a whole lot like Clint mutters, “Is it on? I can’t tell…Hey Jim, how do I tell if this thing is on?” The camera whips up and catches a blurry shot of the corner of Jim Morita’s face.

“Is the red light blinking in the corner?” Jim calls.

“Yeah.” Clint’s voice is incredibly loud with the camera right next to it. Bucky winces and turns down the volume on the television several notches.

“Then it’s on.”

Finally, the camera straightens out and stops shaking. It focuses, either automatically or because Clint did something, and pulls back to reveal that the scene is the backyard of the house in summertime, with leaves on the tree and grass on the ground. Bucky wouldn’t recognize it but for the presence of the deck. He’s never seen it without a thick layer of snow covering everything, but it has the same distinctive L shape.

Then he sees himself come into view, and it’s very strange; watching himself recorded but having no memory to associate with it. Clint says, “It’s recording,” and Bucky—the Bucky-on-screen—gives a grin and a thumbs up. His hair is longer that it is now, his skin slightly burnt, but he looks happy. He looks even happier when Steve comes into frame, holding a Dr. Pepper and looking healthy, like he’s not suffering from hay fever he’s prone to during summer, and Bucky is pleased.

Then the Bucky-on-screen and Steve look at each other and it’s…Christ, it’s not anything Bucky was expecting. He watches his own entire expression shifts, and he isn’t sure he’s ever seen that look on his own face. It’s not even that the look is intentional; they’re not making eyes at each other, because Bucky knows what that looks like. It’s what appears to be an entirely unconscious shift in expression borne forth by their proximity to each other.

That, Bucky thinks, is what I look like when I’m completely, stupidly in love.

“So, Barnes,” Clint says, loudly again, to be heard over the chatter and laughter and general cheer of those around them. “What do you have to say to the man you love on the day of his birth?”

“Hey,” Bucky drawls, and looks down at Steve. If possible, his eyes get _starrier_. It’s actually kind of scary how much affection he can put into one glance. “It’s your birthday? Why didn’t you tell me, pal? I’d’ve got you something.” He nudges Steve. “Hey, you were born on the Fourth of July. That’s kinda cool.”

Steve rolls his eyes and does that thing where he kicks Bucky’s shins.

“Well, since it’s your birthday, I suppose I should say something. Make a speech or whatever.” With that, he hops up onto the deck, not even bothering to use the stairs. Clint follows him clumsily with the camera, panning over the grill as he does so. The camera catches a flash of red hair, and Bucky thinks it must be Natasha standing behind the grill. By the time Clint reaches the correct portion of deck, the Bucky-on-screen is standing there with a beer bottle in one hand and a spoon in the other. He bangs the spoon on the beer bottle. Clint can be heard sniggering behind the camera. “Attention! Attention! I would like to address the birthday boy.”

“Bucky, no,” Steve whispers from somewhere to Clint’s side, but he doesn’t sound put out. Bucky knows what Steve sounds like put out, has been exposed to it enough in the past month or so, and that’s not what he sounds like when he’s put out.

The ambient noise of the party quiets, until all that can be heard is the breeze blowing on the camera’s microphone. Bucky-on-screen sets down the beer bottle and spoon, shoves his hands in his pockets and says, “So, as most of you probably know, I’m Steve’s husband, James. Mostly known as Bucky, sometimes known as That Jerk.”

Vague chitters of laughter from the crowd behind the camera. Bucky feels some pretty serious secondary embarrassment because he likes to think he has a slightly better sense of humor than that.

“Only,” Bucky-on-screen holds up one index finger, “That’s not entirely true. See, in case you haven’t noticed, Steve and I are both men and that was a problem way back in 2000 when we decided to get married. Back then, the state of New York was doing these things called civil unions. We got one of those, and we’ve been pretty happy with it. It’s been almost fifteen years and I’m sure Steve’d be as happy as I am with keeping things how they are for another fifteen.”

This time, there’s a scattered ‘aw’. Clint pans over to Steve, who looks both embarrassed and flattered, covering his face with one hand but peeking through spread fingers up at the deck. Peggy nudges him and he drops his hands, revealing a scarlet blush and a smile practically tearing his face in two. It does funny things to Bucky’s heart.

“But I’m sitting there, y’know,” Bucky-on-screen continues, “and I’m thinkin’, hey, New Jersey just passed this snazzy new law, and my guy’s got a birthday coming up. I figure I owe him for being the one to get down on one knee when we were both young and stupid and he didn’t have any guarantees. I owe him for being the brave one, back when we couldn’t hardly call ourselves married.” Bucky-on-screen jumps back off the deck, steps up to Steve, and kneels down on one knee. It looks like he’s half in the flowerbed, but doesn’t seem to care.

The party is absolutely silent.

“So here we are, fifteen years and two kids and a lot of growing later.” Bucky-on-screen pulls a little blue box out of his pocket. “And I hope it was worth the wait, bud. ‘Cause I’d really like to spend the rest of my life with you, and call you my husband while I do it.” He opens the box, and Bucky can’t see the ring, not really, but it catches the sun. Makes it look like there’s a star in that box. “Steve Ro—Barnes, will you marry me? For real?”

Steve does that thing where he swipes a thumb under his eye to catch the tears before they fall, because he hates it when people see him cry, and nods.

“Yeah,” Steve says, and his voice is strong. “Yeah, Bucky. I will.”

There’s more video after that, but Bucky turns the TV off. He feels weirdly like he shouldn’t be watching, even though this video is supposed to be him. Supposed to be his memories.

In the dim light of the lamp next to the sofa, Bucky stares at his own left hand. He’s never thought much about the fact that in this life, he wears two bands on his left ring finger. One a simple gold wedding band, the other broad and silver with the smallest of diamonds, perfectly round, set into the center. Steve has one that’s similar enough, the diamond a little bigger and the metal white gold instead of silver, but still very similar. He slides it off his finger and holds it in his hand. Only then does he notice the engraving on the inside.

_Til the end of the line_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Sorry I didn't update when I usually do. I had a music video shoot last night and it went until about 5 AM so by the time I got home I wasn't up for anything but sleep. This chapter is pretty short, only 7400 words, but we're in the home stretch now, people! only five more chapters to go, and then a possibly epilogue.  
> Also: Thank you so much for all of your comments last week! They were so nice and it really helped me to get a look at how each of you felt about the story and your various interpretations thereof.  
> Thanks for reading.


	7. Chapter 7

He’s gotten used to waking up to the sound of AC/DC’s _Highway to Hell. I_ t’s the alarm tone that the Bucky of this universe chose for some unfathomable reason, and he figures it’d be weird if he changed it all of a sudden. It does its job—more than its job, sometimes, because more than once it’s shocked him out of a dead sleep and sent him flopping around like a dying fish, trying to get his hand on his phone.

Other mornings, he just lays there, groans and tries to block it out. For instance, the first Friday of February, a day that turns out to be so cold that he can feel it coming in through the closed window. _Highway to Hell_ blares directly into his ear because he fell asleep reading cnbc.com again. He groans, squeezes his eyes shut and pretends it’s not happening, until Steve reaches over him and turns off his alarm, sighs against his neck.

Things have been okay since the night of the bowling game. Not great, but okay. As good as they’ve ever been. Steve woke up the next morning and seemed inclined to forget about the whole thing, and Bucky let him.

“Time to get up,” Steve breathes against his neck.

“Mmno,” Bucky mumbles, turns half-over and presses the side of his face against his pillow.

“C’mon, Buck,” Steve sighs between his shoulder blades. Digs two fingers into the small of Bucky’s back. “Get up. Time to greet the day.”

With a loud groan that he hopes airs his discontent, Bucky gets up and shuffles to the closet, pulls out his uniform shirt and a pair of black jeans, throws them on the bed. Steve turns over, probably go to back to sleep until Bucky gets out of the shower and he can get in, get showered while Bucky goes to wake America up and gets her ready for school. Bucky can’t say he’s not incredibly envious of the extra half hour of sleep that Steve always gets.

Bucky says, “So says the lucky bastard who gets to sleep in,” and Steve smirks with closed eyes.

“Figure out a way to work from home,” he says, “and you could too.”

“Don’t think Nat would go for that,” Bucky says, and Steve gives another small smile. He stares for a minute at the quirk of Steve’s lips just poking out from underneath the comforter. Bucky wants to kiss him. He’s been wanting to do it a lot lately, so much so that it hurts, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself because of it. Like he has every other time, he runs a hand through his hair, bites his lip, and forces himself to turn away. He undresses and throws his clothes into the hamper on his way into the bathroom.

Twenty-five minutes later, he steps out, washed and shaved. Stops dead halfway out of the bathroom, blue towel wrapped around his waist and water dripping slowly down his chest from his hair. Steve is on the center of the bed, legs crossed with a large, shallow box sitting on his lap. A coat box, Bucky thinks, or some variety of clothing box. Steve looks very pleased with himself, quite like the cat that got the canary. He says, “I know we said no gifts, but you never keep your promise and I never keep mine, so let’s just skip the you-shouldn’t-haves. I’m really proud of myself for this one, so open it before I burst.” He shoves the box closer with a grin that threatens to split his face.

“Um…okay,” Bucky mumbles, and steps forward to receive the box before Steve does something like fling it at him. It’s not wrapped or marked; just plain white with strips of Scotch tape on the sides to keep the lid on. Bucky slits the tape open easily with his nails, sets the box down on the bed and lifts the lid off the bottom. Underneath two layers of green tissue paper, a large quantity of navy blue fabric is folded neatly into the box. Bucky has to pull it out to realize that it’s a pair of pants and, underneath it, a matching coat. A suit coat that bears a striking resemblance to the suit coat he tried on at the mall last month. He stares for a long period of time.

Seeing it reminds him of the way he embarrassed himself, of what he put Steve through that night, of his own selfishness that he is still struggling with. Because he is selfish, and he doesn’t quite know how to stop being selfish after fifteen years of living with only himself, of thinking of only himself and his career. He doesn’t know how to be Bucky, the Bucky of this life whom he isn’t sure _has_ thought of himself in fifteen years. Who loves Steve just as fiercely as Steve loves him, who took in a lost baby girl and had a baby boy and moved to New Jersey to help a friend.

What he does know is that this is one of the most thoughtful things anyone has ever done for him. Steve’s been put through hell and back the last few weeks, is probably suffering from whiplash from the complete 180 his husband’s personality has undergone. Nobody would blame him for resenting the idea of this suit, of what it represents, but he doesn’t. He bought it for Bucky, and it makes his chest and throat feel just a little bit tight, because Steve is a better person than him, such a better person.

“It’s a knock-off,” Steve says, and Bucky nods, because he doesn’t recognize the name on the tag, but that’s okay. He can’t bring himself to care, right now, even though he would have balked before all of this, in another life. “I found it in a TJ Maxx. It was the only one and it was your size, so I couldn’t not get it. Wanted to get my guy something he really wanted.” He smiles softly, reaches out to touch the fabric for himself. “I think it’ll look great on you, bud.”

“Thanks, Stevie,” he says, putting all of the sincerity that he can into two words, three syllables. He strokes his thumb over the sleeve of the fabric, staring at it with just a little bit of disbelieve. Even a knock-off from a TJ Maxx probably came with a considerable price tag, and from what Steve has mentioned, commissions have been slow. He knows that the money would be better spent elsewhere, because he’s developing a sense for those kinds of things. Still, Steve decided to spend the money on him. To get him something nice. The tight feeling in his chest intensifies.

“So, uh…what’s the occasion?” Bucky mumbles, as he carefully folds the suit back into its box.

“Ha,” Steve says. “Very funny.”

“No, I’m serious,” Bucky says, looks up to meet Steve’s eyes. There’s still a bit of blurriness from sleep there, still some blond strands falling into them from the tangled mop that his hair always becomes overnight, but Bucky thinks he’s beautiful. “I haven’t exactly been…y’know, all that great lately. What’d I do to deserve this?”

The good humor stays on Steve’s face for exactly five seconds, and then it all falls off like a mask with the strings cut. He fixes his jaw, knits his brow and looks down and off to the side, like he can’t look at Bucky anymore. His breathing goes off as though he’s suddenly come under stress. His shoulders slump. A cold, tingling ball of dread forms in Bucky’s stomach.

“You didn’t remember,” Steve says, and it’s not a question. “You forgot. You really forgot our anniversary.”

Bucky loses feeling in his limbs for a second. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. This is worse than Christmas, he thinks. This is worse than missing Christmas. This is letting Steve down at the worst possible time. This is reinforcing for Steve the idea that his relationship, his _marriage_ is failing. Bucky aches for him, and feels a wave of self-loathing rise up so strong that it almost produces a physical reaction.

“I can fix this,” he pleads, “I’ll go out right now and get you something. I’ll make this right.”

That was not the right thing to say. Steve gives him this incredulous look, narrow-eyed-furrowed-browed-open-mouthed. Says, “You think I care about a gift, Bucky? I don’t give a damn about a gift. There’ve been years where we didn’t have the money to do anything but light a candle at dinner but at least _you remembered_. At least I knew that you…” He huffs. His shoulders slump with it.

“I’m sorry,” Buck says. “Please just. You’ve gotta believe me when I say that. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Just save it,” Steve mutters, climbing off the bed. “Save it, Buck. I don’t wanna…” he goes into the bathroom, slams the door. Returns a minute later, careening back out with all the ferocity of an avenging angel. He’s angry. He’s sad, yes, but pissed as all hell, and Steve has always given into his anger easier than his sadness. He sees sadness as something that makes him weak, but anger as something that validates him. He bunches his hands into fists at his sides, holds up his chin, says, “Is this what we are now, Bucky? Am I gonna have to drop hints two weeks before our anniversary from now on? Just so you’ll remember? Because I won’t. I refuse to be complacent in the failings of this marriage. I won’t watch it shrivel up and die. We’ve worked too hard for this.”

“I know,” Bucky says.

“You keep saying that, but do you? I mean…” Steve makes a noise in his throat, a growl or some other airing of extreme discontent. “I don’t get you sometimes, Bucky Barnes! How are you the kind of guy who can propose that we renew our vows in July and forget our anniversary in February?”

“It was a mistake, Stevie,” Bucky pleads. “Lemme me make this right.”

“How?” Steve asks. He jams his hands over his waist, crumpling the gray fabric of his sleep shirt between his fingers.

“I don’t know,” Bucky says. “Just let me…Gimme twelve hours to figure it out. Y’can yell at me all you want if I haven’t got something figured out by tonight but please, just give me a chance.”

Steve stares at him for a long time; a stand-off on opposite sides of the bed. On one side, Bucky, still in his towel with dripping hair. On the other, Steve with his oversized sleep shirt and sweatpants and a scowl on his face that would cause panic in those with more nervous dispositions. Bucky remains carefully still, lets the water drip from his hair and onto his chest and the floor, doesn’t move or speak until Steve says, “Fine.” Just _fine_ , then walks into the bathroom. Slams the door.

Bucky exhales, loudly and roughly, and gets dressed.

* * *

It doesn’t escape America’s notice that there is a decided chill to the atmosphere of the house. This could be because Steve walks by while Bucky is fixing her breakfast—chocolate milk and a bowl of instant peaches and cream oatmeal; same thing every morning—and gets the orange juice out of the fridge, wordless; pours himself a glass, wordless; and descends into the basement, wordless.

Chancing fate, Bucky shuffles over to the basement door, still mixing the chocolate syrup into the milk—because America won’t drink store-bought chocolate milk; she has to have it mixed for her—and calls, “You have the baby monitor, bud?”

Steve doesn’t turn around, just pulls the baby monitor out of the left pocket of his grey zip-up hoodie and holds it above his head.

“You, uh…y’should eat something. Before you start to work. You’n I both know how bad you are about forgetting to eat once you get going.” To be honest, Bucky has only relearned this recently.  He's come home several days in a row, Kate and America in tow, to find that Steve had taken no breaks since Bucky left that morning expect to tend to Peter. If Bucky didn’t know Steve, he’d wonder why the guy didn’t think to feed himself when he fed the baby, but Bucky knows Steve. Or, maybe, _knew_ Steve, but it’s all the same. Steve hasn’t changed that much.

Steve turns around with that belligerent look in his eyes, takes a deliberate sip of his orange juice.

Fuck, but that guy can play the silence game.

Bucky walks away, sighing loudly, and slides the chocolate milk across the kitchen table to America, already sitting in her booster seat and eating her oatmeal. He sits down next to her, elbows on the table and head in his hands, and sighs, “Tell me if that chocolate milk is chocolatey enough, darlin’.”

“It’s good,” America says, with a milk mustache on her upper lip after she sets the glass back down. She scoops a spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth, hand fisted around the spoon handle, and around it mumbles, “Why’s Daddy not talking to you?”

Bucky straightens up to glance at the basement door, which is still about one-forth open. Quietly as he can, he whispers, “I forgot their anniversary,” to her.

America gives this exaggerated, childlike gasp and says, “Oh no, that’s bad.”

“Yeah,” Bucky groans, “I know…but how was I supposed to know their anniversary? I…” He glances at the door again, lowers his voice further still, and hisses, “I mean, I never _married_ him.” He stares at America, waiting for reassurance, and doesn’t even allow himself to dwell on the fact that he has, in the space of a month and a half, become the kind of person who looks for validation in people under the age of six.

At least America doesn’t disappoint. She nods with her lips pursed, probably in a child’s approximation of a sympathetic look. “I know. I’m sorry, I should have told you when their anniversary was…they always do something really special together.”

“Like what?” Bucky mumbles.

“Before I was born, Aunt Peggy told me that they went to Coney Island and rode the Ferris Wheel at night and Aunt Peggy said that things like that are really romantic.” She says it with the kind of certainty that only a five-year-old repeating the word of an authority figure can. She takes another sip of chocolate milk and Bucky can’t help but grab a napkin off the holder on the table and wipe her mouth. She smiles at him brightly. “Thanks.”

“Maybe I can get him some…I dunno, some expensive paint, or something? Or maybe a watch? Does he wear watches?”

“He probably would if you got him one,” America says with a shrug, and the kind of unthinking earnestness that makes it clear that it’s not a lie, could never be. “But he seems really mad, so if I were you, I’d think…bigger.” She offers a grin, slightly sinister and only made slightly less so by the chocolate milk mustache still faintly clinging to her upper lip. “Like a hot air balloon.” She gasps and her eyes get wide. “Or a _spaceship_.”

Sometimes Bucky forgets that he’s talking to someone whom has not yet graduated kindergarten.

“Um,” Bucky says slowly. “I think that might a bit…too much. But thank for the suggestion, sweetheart.” He pats her head, gets his fingers tangled in her hair and spends two minutes gently disentangling them. “Okay, uh, I’m gonna get you ready. Let’s start with your hair.”

It’s as he’s combing her hair that he stops, an epiphany swelling in his brain. His hands slow until he’s just sitting there, staring over her head with the brush in his hand, unmoving. Slowly, he says, “Have they ever gone to the Met?”

“I…don’t know what that is,” America mumbles.

“The Metropolitan Museum of Art,” Bucky says. “It’s a giant art museum in New York City.”

America turns around and grins at him. “Now you’re thinking.”

* * *

“Hey, can I take, like…half a day off? Today?”

The way that Natasha turns around kind of makes it seem like her head should be turning independent of her body. She sets down the box she’s carrying—and Bucky only had to ask her once if she was _sure she should be carrying heavy stuff_ to learn that it was Not Good—and purses her lips, says, “You do this every year, James…”

“I know, I know,” Bucky says, even though he doesn’t. “But I really fucked up this year, and I need to make it right, so I _really_ need the half-day off, and I know I have the time accrued because I’m general manager and it’s my job to know things like that. Also, since I’m general manager, I could technically give _myself_ the time off—“

“No you couldn’t.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Bucky says, scratching the back of his neck. “But I really need the time, so…please. I swear, I’ll never do it again.” He wonders if he should do something like get down on his knees and beg, or fold his hands in a prayerful gesture, but he thinks that might be a bit too much. Natasha can be frightening, but treating her like some kind of malevolent overlord would probably not help him.

Then Natasha says, “You forgot your anniversary,” and it’s not a question. Bucky genuinely fears for his life for a second because Natasha is standing in this power stance, legs spread and arms akimbo. He feels like a small, tiny rodent underneath her wrath. It’s different from how he felt underneath the brunt of Steve’s hurt and anger earlier, although not necessarily better or worse. It’s a difference in sensation; it’s an aching in his chest and a guilt so strong that he couldn’t breathe versus a tingling in his limbs and a hot wave of shame, reminiscent of being caught doing something wrong by his mother when he was a kid.

Because honesty is always the best policy in these situations, Bucky sighs out a, “Yes,” and then steps closer, toes butting up against the box Natasha set between them to say, “So you’re quite literally holding my marriage in your hands right now. Please, _please_ help me. Give me the afternoon off and I swear, I’ll…I’ll do unpaid overtime for the rest of eternity, if I have to. I need to make this right.”

Natasha stands there silently, until he’s honest to God ready to get down on his knees and beg. When all hope seems to be lost—and part of him is convinced that she just wanted to watch him sweat, or else did it for dramatic effect—she says, “Fine. I’ll let you get off at one. But James? This isn’t for you. Steve is a good guy, and he deserves better than a major kick in the face like you forgetting your anniversary.”

“I know,” Bucky sighs, might whimper it a little. He didn’t think he could feel any guiltier but he was obviously wrong. He’d grown up with Catholic guilt thrummed into his head and heart, but it feels like nothing compared to what Natasha’s putting him through right now.

“You’re a good guy too, James,” Natasha sighs, and rests her hand on his elbow, “A really good guy, and even good guys screw up. But just because you’re a good guy doesn’t mean you should be absolved of this. Because it’s a shit thing to do.” She pulls her hand away, quick as she put it there, and picks up the box again. Before she walks away, she says, “Don’t let what you have fall apart. I’m not sentimental, but…what you two have isn’t something that everyone gets. You’d be stupid to let it go because life got in the way.” With that, she walks out of the stockroom.

* * *

America is perfectly happy to get out of school early. So is Kate, even though it means spending the next six hours doing nothing in her parents’ store. Bucky would try to feel guilty about leaving Clint and Nat to figure out what to do with their kid in an archery equipment store, if he wasn’t the one that had to pick her up from school and make her dinner every day. They owe him.

He doesn’t announce himself when he comes in the door, which is probably why Steve is so surprised when he comes into the basement. He jumps at his easel, almost falling off the stool. In his shock, he must forget that he’s not talking to Bucky, because he says, “What are you doing home? It’s only one-thirty. Are you okay, is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine,” Bucky assures, and passes Steve to lift Peter out of his playpen. Says, “Hey there, buddy, wanna go on a ride with Daddy? Wanna go to Aunt Peggy’s house?”

“Peggy?” Steve mutters, lowering his paintbrush from the canvas.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, nodding. “I called Peggy, asked her if I could bring the kids and the dog by and she said yes.” He also had to actually search his rolodex at work for her address, but Steve doesn’t need to know that. “I already picked America up, so I’m gonna pack them some things and throw ‘em in the car and take them over to Peggy’s for the weekend.” He gives Steve a smile, trying to be a reassuring as possible.

“Bucky,” Steve say slowly, “what’re you doing?”

“Making things right,” Bucky says firmly and with conviction.  “I can’t tell you right now, but I promise it’s good, okay? Can we just…can you maybe give me the benefit of the doubt and suspend the silent treatment? I hate it when you don’t talk to me.” It’s engineered in his head to interefere with all the ire that Steve is still broadcasting in his direction, but he realizes as he’s saying it that it’s very true. He actually, honestly hates it when Steve doesn’t talk to him.

“Yeah,” Steve says, and that’s easier than Bucky thought. But then again, Steve’s anger has always been the kind to burn hotly and quickly. Probably because Steve doesn’t actually have a malicious bone in his body, but also possibly because he’s of that rare breed of person who realizes that running a grudge into the ground is counterproductive and doesn’t help anyone.

He sets down his paintbrush and cleans his hands of paint, slides off the stool. He and Bucky stare at each other for a charged beat of silence before Steve says, “I’ll go help America get packed,” and retreats up the stairs. It’s not forgiveness, and it’s certainly not absolution, but it’s something. Bucky will take anything he can get right now.

It isn’t hard to pack for an infant. Three onesies, a dozen diapers (Even though he’s sure Peggy has some at her house, from what Steve has alluded to about how often they drop the kids at her doorstep) and two or three toys are all that really need to go into the baby bag. Peter watches him with half-interest from his jumper seat, but he’s completely bored of it by the time Bucky zips up the bag, and has turned to more interesting things—in this case, the spinning rings on the side of the jumper seat. Bucky leaves him to it, throws the baby bag over his shoulder and heads towards the stairs.

When he hears the quiet mumblings from America’s room, the kind that are obviously intended to prevent noise carrying, he’s intrigued. Can’t help but ease over to the door, press his ear close to the cracked door.

“…know fighting is part of it, right?” Steve’s voice, quiet and concerned and reassuring. “It doesn’t mean we hate each other.”

“I know,” America says, all of that innocent confidence on full display. “It’s alright. He’s still learning.”

“Learning what?” Steve asks, after a pause, and Bucky’s heart stop for a second. Did he ever tell America that she couldn’t tell Steve about the situation? He doesn’t think he did, and that might be the kind of thing that has to be explained to a five-year-old. He wonders how conspicuous it would be if he barged in and carried America out under his arm right now.

Then America simply says, “How to have a family,” and that’s…accurate. His gut tightens, but not in that horrible, churning way that the guilt earlier caused in him, but not in anyway that’s entirely familiar either. He steps closer to the door, peeks around the corner. Steve’s back is to the door, standing still with a half-full backpack dangling by one strap from his hand. America is facing him, though, sitting on her bed, and she glances around Steve’s elbow to look at him. Offer a small smile.

“Yeah, I guess he is,” Steve says, and tucks a stand of America’s hair behind her ear, hands her to the backpack. “You can put two stuffed animals in.”

America takes to staring at her pile of stuffed animals like she’s looking for the meaning of life, and Bucky walks away before Steve can realize that he’s been eavesdropping. He thinks he might realize it anyway, because as Bucky is descending the stairs, Steve leans over the railing and offers him something that’s not quite a smile, but it’s soft and sweet. Bucky stares, standing on the first landing, and that feeling in his gut swoops, makes itself known all over again. It feels good.

“Pack for us, too,” Bucky tells him. “Enough for the weekend. Make sure to bring a sketchpad.”

“A sketchpad?” Steve repeats.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, with a nod and an expression he can only hope is reassuring. “I got big plans.”

Now the corners of Steve’s mouth lift. He says, “Alright,” and walks into the bedroom.

* * *

“So…the city,” Steve says, as they cross George Washington Bridge. It’s the first thing he’s said since they dropped off the kids and the dog, since Peggy gave them a look that made it pretty obvious Steve called her or texted her while Bucky was at work. They had a very short, heads-bowed-together conversation on the front porch as Bucky got the kids settled in with Gabe. They’d actually converted their guest room into a nursery, which probably says a lot about how often they pack their kids off to Peggy and Gabe’s, but he figures that without grandparents, they needed somewhere to put the kids when they needed a night to themselves.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I just…yeah. I had an idea.”

Steve nods, and Bucky catches it out of the corner of his eye. Of course, getting into the city at three o’clock in the afternoon can be incredibly hard, and staring at the road isn’t something you have to do when you’re bumper-to-bumper with half the population of the Tri-State area. What keeps him staring out the windshield is Steve’s continued silence, the fact that _Steve_ is still staring out the windshield. It’s awkward, and it feels wrong, because even when Bucky was catapulted back into this life the he abandoned fifteen years ago, things weren’t awkward. Bizarre, but not awkward.

“I don’t like being mad at you,” Steve says to the windshield. “I really don’t. But you’ve got to understand that…things have been weird lately, and I’m beginning to think that we’ve lost our footing with each other. I’m not sure where we stand anymore, and that scares me.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “And I’ve been…an idiot, and your concerns are warranted. I’m just…I dunno, Stevie. I feel like a tool, I really do, but I can’t help what I’ve done. All I can do is try to make up for it.” He eases the car fifteen feet forward, stops again and sighs in the direction of the grimy Hudson. “And, y’know, I’ll understand if it’s too little too late, but at least try to be impressed. I kind of thought a lot about this.”

“You haven’t even told me what we’re doing.” Steve tilts down the sun visor on his side, blocking the sun (Which is slowly starting to sink already; God, winter is depressing) from hitting his eyes. “So far you’ve told me to pack a sketchpad and that we’ll be staying in the city for the weekend, but that’s all.”

“You want me to ruin the surprise?”

Steve offers a wry smile. “You know my track record with surprises, bud. They’re not my favorite thing.” He says it like he’s remembering a specific incident. Bucky isn’t sure what that incident would be, but he remembers Steve having an aversion to shock and surprise in college. Remembers Steve being the kind of person who would react wonderfully to small kindnesses, like being brought coffee without asking or small, insignificant _I was thinking of you_ type gifts. Not so much to things like surprise visits or goosing or anything that made him jump.

“Okay, I guess I’ll tell you,” Bucky says, and it’s with some genuine hesitance but also with a lot of fake reluctance. “Remember our first date?”

“The one where we sat on my bed and I sneezed on you a lot?” Steve mutters. “Yeah. It’s one of the most romantic things to ever happen to me, I love it when you bring it up.”

“No, don’t be like that. I thought it was cute.” He grins over at Steve, catches his eye-roll and the tug of his lips. “I’m serious. You were all rumpled and cute and red, and you were wearing this T-shirt that was, like, four sizes too big for you.” It was an Atlanta Falcons shirt that came almost to Steve’s knees worn over a soft, worn pair of grey sweatpants. Bucky remembers Steve being soft and fever-warm but clean-smelling, like he’d dragged himself into the shower even after Bucky told him to do no such thing.

It’s strange, how much of his past with Steve he remembers the longer he thinks about it. Especially after almost forgetting all of it.

“Atlanta Falcons, I think,” he says, even though he _knows_. “Where’d you even get it? Have you ever even _been_ to Georgia?”

“It was Sam’s,” Steve says, waving a hand. “His mom bought it for him but it was too small. So he gave it to me.”

“Sam?” Bucky mutters. He can’t remember who Sam was. The only Sam he’s dealt with recently is nobody Steve would know. He hasn’t given up on America’s theory that Sam is an alien, but he’s starting to think he might be more than that. Like some kind of guardian angel. The most annoying guardian angel in God’s army, probably, but still.

“My roommate at the time,” Steve says. “He and I were really good friends, actually. He and his mom moved in next door to my foster home when we were eleven, so we more or less grew up together. We started drifting apart in college, though. I haven’t seen him since graduation.” There’s a frown on Steve’s face for a few minutes, and his fingers tap absentmindedly on the consol. “I guess that’s how it goes though, right? People get married. Move away. Life happens.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. It hurts a bit because he knows that in another life that’s exactly what happened to him and Steve. He can’t remember this Sam guy, might have met him once in passing, like when Bucky was arriving and he was leaving, but he’s not even sure about that. Couldn’t match a face to the name if he tried. “Did I ever meet him?”

“I think you must have,” Steve says, frowning. “I mean, I lived with him until I stopped dorming sophomore year. You two must have crossed paths at some point.”

“Huh. Either way, that’s not what I was getting at. Remember what our first date was _supposed_ to be?”

“No,” Steve snorts. “It was eighteen years ago.” Then he thinks about it for a second, and Bucky lets him. He can see the cogs turning. Can almost hear the click when Steve finds what he’s looking for in that beautiful brain of his, somewhere dusty on a shelf somewhere. He leans his head back, mouth falling open to drawl, “ _Oh_. Oh, now I remember. You were gonna take me to some kind of event they had at the Met.”

“It was a drop-in-draw,” Bucky says. “They had them every few weekends…you brought a sketchbook and a pencil and they had demonstrations every thirty minutes, and you’d sketch the sculptures and stuff. It sounded neat to me, and you were all about sketching in college, so…”

“I still like to sketch,” Steve says. “I just don’t have a chance, usually.” He turns his head to the side, rolling it on the headrest. “Why? Is that where we’re going, the Met?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and it’s at this point that they finally get into the city. He mutters vague gratitude to God as the bottleneck of the bridge ends and traffic begins to flow at a consistent, if still slow, rate. “They don’t, uh, do the drop-in-draws very often anymore, but nobody ever said you couldn’t sit and draw. I figure we can, y’know, spend the afternoon there, you can sketch to your heart’s content and I’ll be quiet and stay out of your way, and then we can go get dinner somewhere and, uh, y’know. Or something.”

“That sounds real nice, pal,” Steve says, quietly. “Sounds like you’ll be kinda bored, though.”

“Oh, I dunno,” Bucky says. “It’s a museum. I’m sure I’ll find something to look at.” Like Steve. Probably Steve. He always loved watching Steve draw, watching the concentration of his furrowed brow and his pursed lips and sometimes the pink tip of his tongue poking out from between his teeth.

On the consol, Steve’s hand is still tapping out some absentminded rhythm. Bucky creeps a hand up, finds Steve’s fingers and interlocks them with his own. Steve looks out the window and brushes his thumb up and down Bucky’s pinky.

* * *

Steve fills four or five pages of his sketchbook over the course of several hours. Bucky spends the majority of his time squinting at art and sitting next to Steve on various benches. As sunset is turning to dusk, they end their day with Steve sketching the Temple of Dendur. They sit on one in a long line of flat silver benches that stretch almost the length of the large room and face a wall of windows through which the blinding light of sunset over central park can be seen. Bucky spends half an hour wishing he’d brought his sunglasses inside with him, until the sun finally goes low enough that it is no longer blinding him.

“We can go when I’m done with this one,” Steve says. He’s twisted himself into a complicated arrangement with the sketchbook on his knees, raised close to his face and his forehead almost touching it. Bucky wonders how he can work like that, but he’s always done it. He’s also always been the kind of person that can get themselves into position like that and not move for hours at a time. Bucky, on the other hand, has _never_ been that kind of person. Even when he was expected to sit through meetings that took literal days, he has never been the kind of person that can deal with sitting in one place, without fidgeting, for hours. He’s gotten up no less than four times to stretch his legs in the hour and a half since Steve plopped himself down on this bench.

“We can stay as long as you like,” Bucky assures him, hoping that Steve hasn’t picked up on his restlessness and thought it an objection to all the time spent in this particular exhibit. “I’m just, y’know…ants in my pants.”

Steve glances up from his paper for just a second, offers a grin that crinkles his eyes behind his glasses. He doesn’t have wrinkles—barely looks his proper age of thirty-five, really—but sometimes the corners of his eyes fold under the brunt of his brilliant smiles and Bucky can tell what he’ll look like years from now, when all of that smiling has etched permanent lines next to his eyes.

He says, “Remember that time you actually got ants in your pants?”

“Nope,” Bucky says, because he honestly doesn’t. Probably one of those things that didn’t actually happen to him, one of those anecdotes that are so constantly mumbled about in passing that he doesn’t remember and almost wishes he does. Except, he’s relatively sure that he wouldn’t want to have the memory of actual, literal ants in his pants floating around in his brain where it can be dredged up whenever he sits down on some grass.

“It was right after we moved to Brooklyn,” Steve says, intermittently glancing up at Bucky from his paper almost like it’s _him_ that he’s drawing. “There was an ant hill in the backyard, and Peggy and Gabe had just started dating so we made dinner and invited them over and had it outside, and they started crawling up your leg and you almost flipped the table. I refuse to believe you don’t remember it, pal. You spent the next two days digging up that ant hill. We had a two foot deep hole in our backyard for three months.”

“I hate bugs,” Bucky mumbles, trying to go for some meaningless platitude that will get Steve off his back about it.

“Hmm,” Steve hums, but thankfully drops the subject. Only that small smirk remains on his face, the kind that says he thinks he’s clever. His hair is falling in his face again. This has to be the way that Bucky likes him best. In his element, blue eyes flicking between his art and his subject.

Which, curiously enough, still seems to be Bucky.

“Hey, what’re you drawing, anyway?” Bucky asks. “You haven’t looked at the temple in twenty minutes.”

“Oh, the reflecting pool,” Steve says, and gestures over Bucky’s shoulder to the reflecting pool on the far side of the room. It’s been turned pink and purple by the reflection of the darkening sunset, but it’s not like Steve can capture that with just a pack of graphite pencils. Steve’s cheeks also go oddly pink, which is not a guarantee that he’s lying, but it definitely hints at the possibility.

“Lemme see,” Bucky says slowly, with a raised eyebrow. Reaches out his hand, only for Steve to pull his sketchbook just out of reach. A feral grin sneaks onto his face. “C’mon, buddy, lemme see the sketchbook—“

Steve folds the sketchpad, words scrambling over themselves as he rushes to get out, “You know I don’t like people looking at my sketches,” which is bullshit. Bucky cannot even count the number of times Steve shoved a sketchpad under his nose and demanded an opinion be given on his work. Granted, Bucky isn’t quite _people_ , at least not in the general sense that Steve means it, but he’s pretty sure that this hasn’t changed.

“Or do you just not like your _subjects_ to see your sketches?” Bucky demands. He lunges for the book. Steve curls himself into a little ball around the book and Bucky lets loose with a battle cry, sparing only a thought for how ridiculous they must look; two grown men, fathers both of them, acting like oversized children in the middle of the Met. The crowd is beginning to thin out, and there is no one on the benches on either side of them, but they still attract stares. Bucky doesn’t pay attention, cackles in Steve’s ear and wriggles his hands around Steve’s flailing limbs to get his hands on the notebook.

“Bucky, no—“ Steve tightens his hands on the bottom of the sketchbook as Bucky pulls from the top. “You’ll rip it—“

“Just lemme see, huh?” Bucky mutters into his ear, “C’mon.”

“People are _staring_.”

“Like I care,” Bucky snorts. It strikes him as something strange to be coming out of his mouth, when only a few months ago his own public image was everything. He doesn’t dwell on it. “New York City has a population of eight-point-five million, baby; I’ll never see any of these people again.” He tugs gently on the sketchbook and nips the cartilage of Steve’s ear. “’m not lettin’ go. Wanna see what you drew.”

“For God’s sake,” Steve sighs, lets the book slide out of his hands. They’re in an incredibly awkward position from which Bucky does not move as he opens the sketchpad—Steve’s legs still folded up on the bench in front of him, bent to the side and Bucky leaning against him, chin burrowed against his neck. He stares over Steve’s shoulder at his work, flipping through the first few pages of which he got glimpses earlier. One entire page is full of a detailed sketch of the Temple, complete with the windows in the background and faceless, unspecific people milling about it.

“This one’s good, pal,” Bucky mumbles, “I like it.” He hasn’t seen one of Steve’s sketches in a very long time. They’ve changed significantly since—improved, as these things are wont to do, but they’re still distinct in the light touch he has on the paper, the thin strokes he makes. His sketches look soft and almost breakable, but they’re real for it all. When he flips the page, he’s expecting a sketch of himself. Steve used to do them all the time, especially when neither of them had slept for a day and a half for studying and Steve needed something to take his mind off his workload, even for a few minutes. To himself, he always looked half-dead in those sketches, but Steve insisted that he was at his most attractive with messy hair and blurry eyes.

That is not what’s on the paper now. It’s not even a full sketch. It’s an eye, thick-lashed and obviously pale of iris even in black and white. The curve of a jaw, the pout of a lip and the intricacies of the cartilage belonging to an ear. It’s the hollow of a cheek bone and the hair dotted along a hairline.

“Which one of these is me?” Bucky mumbles, because he knows Steve was drawing him, there can’t be any other reason for his continuous glances, but he doesn’t spend enough time studying the individual portions of his face—only the whole; the entire package—to tell where he ends and others in the milling crowd start.

“All of it,” Steve mumbles, after a pause. He traces the angle of the jaw he’s drawn, fingers carefully just below the graphite, says “You’re my favorite muse, Buck,” and even though it’s appallingly cheesy, and a small portion of his sardonic soul withers and falls off, Bucky sneaks his nose into Steve’s hair, breathes in the scent of him and smiles against his cheek.

No words need to be said after that, as Steve packs up his sketchbook and pencils and throws the backpack they belong in over his shoulder.

It’s still cold outside, but something about the way that the buildings are positioned blocks the wind, so it’s a kind of stagnant, stiff cold. Bucky chances wrapping an arm around Steve’s shoulder, says, “What d’you wanna do for dinner?” as they step down the broad stoop of the Met. Above them, huge banners proclaim both present and coming attractions.

Steve makes noises, gentle humming sounds that say this is going to take awhile. Bucky lets him think for awhile, because it’s a nice evening for all that it’s cold, and Bucky could probably deal with being out here for a while longer. The twenty degrees of the morning have turned into a relatively tolerable thirty-eight degrees. There is a line of food trucks that seems to live outside the museum, waiting for hungry tourists and workers to exit. He waits a further two minutes for Steve to stop hemming and hawing, and when he doesn’t suggests, “Why don’t we just get something from one’a those trucks? It’ll be fast’n we don’t have to worry about if what we’re wearing is good enough.” Besides, Bucky may or may not have made some reservations for tomorrow evening that he’s trying to preserve at least some kind of budget for. “We can go back to the hotel after that.”

“Yeah,” Steve mumbles absently, already squinting to read the names of the various trucks. “Where did you book us, anyway? On such short notice?”

“Oh, uh…nowhere special. It’s down the street. I got a good price.” He doesn’t mention that he used a discount code passed around by word of mouth to executives of a company that he never worked for in this life. “You want a hotdog? I could go for a hotdog.” Steve is notoriously bad at making decisions about food. If he left it to Steve, they’d be standing here for twenty minutes with rumbling stomachs as he thought long and hard about what he wanted to eat.

“Sure,” Steve says. “Been awhile since I had a New York hotdog.” He smiles. “Remember the place in DUMBO?”

“Yeah, you mentioned it a few weeks ago,” Bucky says, absentminded as he shuffles off towards one of three different trucks that advertise hot dogs in either the truck’s title or on the imagery on the side. Steve follows behind him, their mittened hands interlocked so as not to lose each other in the rush hour crowd streaming down the sidewalk. “We should go back there sometime.”

“Yeah, we should.”

Bucky picks the truck with the shortest line, because a hotdog’s a hotdog as far as he’s concerned. He orders two hotdogs, one with relish and one without (Because Steve’s allergic to cucumbers, of all the damned things), a side of fries and two bottled waters. The food is in his hands practically before the money is out of them—thank God for New York impatience.There’s a brief juggling act where he tries to pass the water bottles off to Steve without dropping one of the trays. It all ends well, and they retreat to the far end of one step to sit and eat.

They’re in good company, even on this cold day. Bucky suspects that even on the coldest of days, people still brave the weather to eat a New York hotdog on the steps of the Met. It’s just something that’s done.

The hotdogs make a satisfying _pop_ when they’re bitten into, and Bucky had almost forgotten how good a hotdog could taste. He might moan out loud, and Steve might grin at him so wide that he has to hold his hand over his mouth to keep his mouthful all in, but that’s alright. Bucky grins at him and swallows and kisses him, close-lipped because _cucumbers_ , and Steve hums happily against his mouth.

“Happy anniversary,” Steve says.

“’m I forgiven, then?” Bucky mumbles, nudging Steve’s nose with his own.

“Yeah, jerk,” Steve says. “You pulled it off.” He kisses the corner of Bucky’s mouth again, lingers there, but it’s chaste and dry and completely tolerable for the public eye.

It’s no reason for some nosy woman sitting two steps below them to practically stick her head between them and say, “Excuse me, but my kids are here.”

Bucky breaks away, confused for a moment as to why this woman thinks she needs to direct this statement at him. It comes back to him in a trickle, the fact that he’s a man, and Steve’s a man, and they’re in a public place and New York is not nearly the all-accepting haven that it likes to pretend to be. He stares at the women for a good long moment, at her kids who are both girls and seem to be twins of about America’s age. He says, “Yeah, and mine are with their aunt and uncle. Is there a reason we’re blurting our kids’ whereabouts here, lady?”

“Bucky…” Steve mutters, and fists a hand into his coat sleeve.

“I’m telling you that children are present,” she says, and the kids seem more interested in the shrill tone their mother’s voice is taking on than they ever were in Bucky and Steve, if they ever noticed in the first place. “I don’t want them to see that.”

“See what?” Bucky demands. The woman opens her mouth, flops it like a fish a couple of times and closes it again. “Lady, I’m just tryin’ to eat a goddamn hotdog, okay? If you’ve got a problem with it, you can take yourself and your kids somewhere else. I’ve got a ring on my finger that says I can kiss this guy where and I want and when I want, and God’s just fine with it.” He takes a ferocious bite of his hotdog and looks down at his lap for several minutes, and when he look back up, the woman is dragging her two confused daughters away by their hands. He shakes his head. “Can’t believe people like that still exist. Damn, it’s been a long time since I had to deal with that kind of shit. Coulda gone the rest of my life without it.”

He'd forgotten things like that could happen to him. He's pushed that part of himself, the part that likes a pair of big hands and narrow hips just as much as curves and breasts, down for so long. Being queer did nothing for a businessman, and beautiful women were an acceptable thing, something he was more than happy to indulge in. If he thought about it, Steve had probably been the last guy he slept with. He isn’t used to it anymore. Thinking of himself as someone that a large portion of society finds indecent.

“It’s just how things are,” Steve sighs. Takes another bite of his hotdog.

“Things used to be different,” Bucky mutters. He drags a fry through a sprinkling of loose salt in the bottom of the tray.

Steve snorts. “No they didn’t. It’s always been like this, Bucky. The most we can hope is that things’ll be different for our kids, however they turn out.” He pops a fry in his mouth. “Not that we won’t be seen as living proof of every stereotype if even one of our kids turns out to be anything but straight, but I’ve never cared about things like that.” He licks errant salt from his lips, squints over at Bucky. “I like to think you don’t either.”

Bucky shrugs, unsure what to say, and finishes his hotdog in two bites. He wipes his mouth, pushes the rest of the fries towards Steve and stares off in the direction of Central Park, where dusk is settling heavy.

“I guess I’m just not used to…” He stops, and sighs and lets out a small noise of discontent because he can’t find the words. Carefully, he turns towards Steve, sets his fingertips on his leg to get his attention. Steve looks at him, halfway through a swig of water. Bucky says, “I need to tell you something. I think it might help us…figure stuff out, but it also might make things worse. Are you okay with that?”

Steve lowers the water bottle. Stares at Bucky, fixes his jaw and nods like he’s agreeing to something that has the potential to kill him. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Go ahead, tell me anything. You know you can. Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it.”

Bucky thinks about his engagement ring, the words _Til the end of the line_ etched into the inside, and grabs Steve’s hand, holds it in his lap. He rubs warmth into them, both of their hands gone cold and stiff without mittens. Says, “I’m living…I _feel_ like I’m living someone else’s life.” He knows he can’t go with the full truth. He feels like there’s some kind of rule about it, like if Bucky tells Steve without Steve figuring it out like America had, Sam’ll appear out of goddamned nowhere to hit him over the head and send him back to the beginning, or some shit.

When he looks up, Steve has that same look of concentration about him, doesn’t look pissed off or insulted. He nods reassuringly when they meet eyes, and Bucky continues, “I feel like…I used to have everything figured out. I woke up in the morning and I knew exactly who I was, exactly what I wanted out of life. I didn’t have concerns beyond…what I wanted to eat for breakfast and if it was gonna rain that day. Everything was…easy, and then one day it wasn’t. One day, I woke up and everything was…different.”

Steve says, “Worse?” like the word is coming out of him on glass but he has to say it, has to vocalize his worst fear because it might help Bucky, might help the man he loves. Bucky feels for him so strongly that it makes him feel actual, legitimate pain, like a fishhook caught somewhere in his gut.

“No, no, no. Not…” he pauses, thinks of the minivan with 150,000 miles on it, and the closet full of denim, and cable that goes out every time, without fail, that the wind blows too hard. “Well, some things. But mostly just different.” Kids, and a house instead of a penthouse, and Liberty the dog with her slobber, and Steve, _Steve_ , this gorgeous older version of Steve that he never knew he wanted until it was set before him, just within arm’s reach but always taking a step back as he took a step forward. “And now I just…I don’t know what I want anymore. Where are my goals? Where’s everything I thought I was working towards? I don’t…I don’t know.”

He stares at Steve, looking for an answer or forgiveness or _something_. Steve’s got this simple expression on his face, an earnest one, but damned if Bucky can figure out what it means.

Then Steve says, “Me either,” and offers a smile, a shrug. Squeezes Bucky’s hands. “It’s only human to be unsure. To not be sure where you’re headed. What would be the point of life if we all knew exactly what we were doing?”

Bucky allows his mouth to gape, allows himself to stare at that earnest expression in incredulity for a few beats before saying, “But you…you’re always so sure of yourself.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Please. Do you know how unsure of myself I am? Every morning I wake up and I stare in the mirror and I wish I was just six inches taller, or that my lungs actually worked how they were supposed to, or that my heart didn’t try to skip every third damned beat. I’ve spent my whole life wanting to kick things because I can’t do what other people can. But I’ve learned to deal with it, and so have a lot of other people.”

“But those are things that you can’t help,” Bucky says. Presses his hand over Steve’s heart and bunches the fabric of his shirt between his fingers. He thinks that the reason Steve’s heart beats out of time sometimes is because it’s overcompensating, trying to beat too hard because it’s so big, it’s got so much to offer, and it just bites off more than it can chew. “You were born with those things. But I wasn’t born with this dead-end job or a New Jersey fuckin’ zipcode—“

“Not a day goes by,” Steve says, deliberately over Bucky, “that I don’t wonder what the hell I’m doing in New Jersey. And not a day goes by that I don’t wish people in New Jersey were willing to pay more for portraits, or that I’d get commissioned to do something that wasn’t a wedding for once, or that Clint and Natasha hadn’t gotten in that car accident and we never had to move to Jersey in the first place. Sometimes I wish that you’d gone to that internship in Germany so that maybe we’d have a different lifestyle right now, one where things were easy and we didn’t have to make one pound of ground beef last for two meals.”

Bucky wants to say _no you don’t; never wish that, because you don’t know what you’re wishing for. You’re wishing for a different life, one where I don’t even know where you are in the world—_ but he doesn’t because it’s too much, or maybe too little too late. So he says, “You never know what might have happened.”

“Exactly.” Steve inclines his head. “Which is why I don’t wish for that for very long. Because then I realize that everything I’m sure about—you and the kids—might not even be here if it wasn’t for that.” He leans forward on his knees, tilts his head. “What’re you sure of?”

Bucky stares at him, at everything that his life for the past fifteen years has apparently revolved around, and murmurs, “That there’s nowhere I’d rather be right now…than here. With you.”

Steve gives a smile, one that seems to sneak onto his face and show his teeth, and presses that smile to Bucky’s lips. This time, nobody interrupts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Only four more chapters left after this, so we're in the home stretch guys, don't give up on me now!  
> Next chapter will change the rating of the fic, so please be aware of that. :)  
> Thanks for reading.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the change of rating; this chapter contains an explicit love scene.

“The _Marriot_ , Bucky?” Steve demands, as they’re pulling into the parking garage. It’s the weirdest mixture of awe, incredulity and panic he’s ever heard.

“Bucky, the _Marriot_?” Steve hisses as they’re taking the elevator to the lobby. He’s rubber necking around like there’s something to be seen in the elevator.

“The _Marriot_?” Steve mutters to himself as they step out and into the atrium. It’s king of dizzying, goes up a far as the eye can see and appears to swirl around and around in something meant to allude to art deco. Steve unbalances himself trying to look up so far, stumbles under the weight of his own awe, and Bucky grips his shoulders to stop him falling. The wonder wears off after the first dozen times in the place, but Bucky isn’t sure Steve’s ever seen such a big room in his life.

“Relax,” Bucky says, leading the way to the front desk with his arm around Steve’s shoulders. “I told you, I got a good price. It’s only for the weekend, we’ve got a little saved up, and I wanted to do something a little out of the ordinary. It’s our anniversary, right?”

“Yeah, but…”

“Trust me,” Bucky whispers in his ear, and leans against the desk to smile at the receptionist. “Hi, my name is Barnes, I booked two nights.”

“First name?” the receptionist sighs. He’s about seventeen and looks like he’d rather be practically anywhere else. His nametag designates him as _Bryant._

“Bu—James.”

Bryant frowns at him, gives a little shake of his head. “Buhjames?”

“James,” Bucky says. He glances at Steve in exasperation, and Steve has this little smirk on his face like it’s something that happens all the time, except it _isn’t_. Bucky hasn’t let his childhood nickname slip to a stranger in years, has fifteen years of practice introducing himself as James Barnes. He says, “Stop smirking, punk,” and Steve just grins back.

“I need your ID, Mister Barnes?” Bryant mutters, holding out a hand without looking up from the computer.

It makes Bucky’s heart do funny things when Steve looks up at the name _Mister Barnes_ , even if he immediately looks back down because, obviously, the words weren't directed at him. Bucky thinks he must have some kind of goofy look on his face, because the receptionist looks vaguely repulsed as he takes Bucky’s driver’s license. In a different lifetime, Bucky thinks he probably would have been pissed off by this kids’ attitude, but right now he’s to content about life in general to care.

“Okay, we have you booked for two nights,” the receptionist drawls, like he’s reading from a script. “In a single king room.”

“Yep,” Bucky says, nodding.

“Okay,” Bryant sighs. “Credit card?”

“Use the American Express,” Steve says, looking around Bucky’s shoulder into his wallet, “for check in. We hardly ever use that thing.” He has an arm wrapped around Bucky’s waist, other hand wrapped around the handle of their shared rolling suitcase, and Bucky feels a warm sensation for the sheer domesticity of it. He never thought he’d be one for domesticity, one for getting the warm fuzzies over things so inane as shared bank accounts and suitcases, but there it is.

He hands the American Express over and the receptionist scans it, clacks on the keyboard, sends two room keys through the encoder and slides them into an envelope on which he’s written ‘1819’. He slides the envelope and the credit card back across the desk, says, “You’re staying in room nineteen on the eighteenth floor. Breakfast is included in your stay and is served from eight to ten. On the last morning of your stay, check out is eleven AM. You can lock in a late checkout until midnight the night before you leave. Late check out is at one.” He blinks at Bucky several times. “Can I help you with anything else, sir?”

“Uh, just one thing,” Bucky says, as he shoves both the keycard envelope and his wallet into a back pocket. “My husband here is worried about the price of the room. Would you mind confirming that?”

Bryant gives an empty stare to the computer, clicks the mouse and taps on the keyboard with one hand. Steve kicks the back of his shin. Bucky smirks to himself because being right is one of his favorite things, second only to being a smart ass.

 “With your company discount, your price per night will be ninety-nine dollars, plus tax and incidentals.” He looks up, murky gray eyes narrowing. “Y’know that company discounts are for official business…”

“Okay, thanks Brian,” Bucky says, and tugs Steve along by the hand, away from the desk and to the elevator. He gets too far away to respond to the receptionist’s protest of, “My name is Bry _ant_.”

“Company discount?” Steve mumbles, raising an eyebrow as they get on the elevator. It’s glass, and the lobby seems to fall away from under them. There is a similar one at the mall, but the mall is two floors—not forty-nine. Steve stumbles back into his chest, mutters, “Whoa, vertigo,” and Bucky is saved from having to explain how he got a StarkTech discount code by a glass elevator.

He gets both arms over Steve’s shoulders, crosses them over his chest and nestles Steve's head under his chin. “I tol—“

“Don’t say it.”

“I told you so.”

Steve sighs, and struggles against Bucky’s arms just enough to air his displeasure, but not enough to even break Bucky’s light grip. “It’s like you’re actively trying to sabotage yourself, James Barnes.” He reaches his hands up and wraps them around Bucky's wrists. “But I guess…a little credit is due. I’m impressed. Still not happy that you forgot it in the first place, but…” He sighs, burrows his face up to the nose into Bucky’s arms. “If the worst thing that happens to our marriage is you forgetting our fifteenth anniversary, it could be a lot worse.” He drops a kiss onto the backside of Bucky’s hand. “Just don’t do it again.”

“Never,” Bucky promises. “Even if we have sixty more of the things.” For a split second, it actually doesn’t occur to him that he might not be around for the next sixty years. Then he tightens his arms around Steve and sighs into his hair and thinks, if he’ll miss one thing about this life when he goes back to where he belongs, it’ll be this.

Their room is two left turns from the elevator. Steve lets his hand trail along the banister that is all that separates the hallway from the open air of the atrium. He’s like a little kid, keeping two fingers on the banister and both eyes on the lobby seventeen stories below. Bucky sinks a hand into his hip pocket and says, “Impressive, isn’t it?” as they turn the corner following the direction of a sign reading <\- _Rooms 11-20_.

“You haven’t been here before, have you?” Steve mumbles, lets himself be pulled under Bucky’s arm.

“I, uh…no. Well, I mean, yeah. There was one time when I was…eight? But, ah, that was just…a daytrip.” It isn’t a lie. The first time Bucky was here, the hotel was brand new and was the designated hotel for the little league championship of 1986. Bucky was eight and a pretty damn good shortstop, mostly because he was one of those kids who couldn’t sit still. Now he’s an adult who can’t sit still and he’s probably stayed at this hotel two dozen times.

“I’m surprised you remember,” Steve mumbles.

“Y’don’t forget a sight like that,” Bucky chuckles.

Their room is just off the main hallway, has bronzed numbers above the peephole designating it as room 1819. Bucky pulls one of the keys out of his back pocket, and it takes three tries to open the door because it’s some unwritten law of the universe that it never takes less than two tries for the keycard to unlock the door for the first time. He hisses in mild irritation on the third attempt, but it’s at that point that the lock blinks green and the unlocking mechanism whirs.

The smell of hotel hits him in the face. It’s probably been four months since he smelled it, which is the longest period he’s gone in the past seven years without exposure. It’s not a good or bad smell—just a smell, but he stands in the doorway and breathes it in because, weirdly, it smells like home. It’s familiar and it triggers olfactory memories of being someone else. He lets the dry feeling of the filtered air rush over his skin and lets Steve in the room, closes it behind himself and leans against it. Breathes in again.

“Wow,” Steve says, and of course he’s gone right to the window, leaving the suitcase leaning against the bed. It’s a small room, but the furniture doesn’t look cluttered in like it tends to in small rooms. There is a red loveseat adjacent to the window, and across from it a dark wood desk with a rolling, wingback office chair. A flat screen TV sits atop a dresser of the same dark wood. The bed is large and luxurious and clothed in white, with a patterned coverlet that Bucky plans to rip off the bed and throw into the closet at the nearest convenience. He does not trust those things.

Out the window, they have a view of one of the corners of Times Square. It’s not a spectacular view, at least not when compared with other views in this city or even elsewhere in this hotel, but Steve seems impressed. He leans against the windowsill on the heels of his hands, and he’s taken off his coat and rolled up his shirt so the long, thin expanse of his forearms is revealed, the pretty pale blue of his veins standing out against his skin. Bucky traces his steps into the room, presses against his back and fits his chin into the space between Steve’s shoulder and neck. Sometimes, like right now, it feels like that little nook is exactly where he belongs.

“Happy anniversary, baby,” Bucky whispers against the line of his neck. Leaves a long, lingering kiss against the angle of his jaw.

Steve turns around without breaking the bracket of his arms, leans back against the windowsill and tilts his head to the side. He presses his hands flat against Bucky’s stomach and then up, over his chest and shoulders, along the sides of his neck and finally up to his jaw. His cool, dry fingers thread into Bucky’s hair. He loves how Steve spreads his fingers to cradle his head, how he smiles with soft eyes and sweet lips. He notices, for what must be the hundredth time since he laid eyes on Steve again, how his sunflower-gold hair falls into his eyes.

“You’re gorgeous,” Bucky whispers. “Just…perfect. You’re perfect, Stevie. You really are.”

“Alright, pal,” Steve says, glances down and grins to himself as color rises in his cheeks. “You can stop piling it on now. You saved the day.” He drops his hands from Bucky’s face so that he can stretch them behind himself, brace on them so he can lift himself onto the windowsill. He settles with his back against it—and Bucky feels the shudder that goes through him at the chill in the glass from outside, feels an answering shiver within himself that has nothing to do with the cold. He loops his fingers into Bucky’s front pockets, pulls him between his knees and kisses the side of his neck. “C’mere.”

It’s in that moment—with Steve’s lips on his neck and the sweet, familiar scent of him in his nose, long artist’s hands inching along his hips—that something shoots straight from his throat and down his spine, pools in his gut and in his chest. It’s an actual physical feeling, a sharp sensation that almost makes him wince. In its wake, it leaves something warm, something that rushes to the areas where Steve is touching him and knots pleasantly in his gut. It’s a sensation he’s familiar with between his legs, but this is not arousal. He breathes out against Steve’s neck, startled, and whispers, “My God.”

“Hmm?” Steve hums. He opens his mouth against the curve of Bucky’s jaw.

Bucky pulls back, pulls almost away from Steve, far enough that he can see Steve’s face. It shoots through him again, like an arrow straight down his body.

“All this time,” Bucky mumbles, pressing their foreheads together. “All this time and I never stopped loving you.” It’s an almost panic-inducing thought, that he comes from a world where he let this guy, this beautiful, selfless person leave his life. Part of him expects Sam to show up right then, rip him away from this man whom is obviously what he needs in this universe, whom is obviously the love of his life—or several lives—and pull him back into a reality where Steve is nowhere to be found, where those eyes and that hair are things he does not see every single day. It doesn’t happen, even though he holds his breath for a solid fifteen seconds waiting for it too. It doesn’t happen, and he steps close again, wedges himself between Steve’s spread thighs and wraps his arms around his waist, brings their bodies close together, tight and snug.

Steve breathes out into his shirt collar, fists both hands over his shoulder blades. “That was all I wanted to hear.”

“I love you,” Bucky whispers. Loved him the first time he set eyes on him in a crowded art history lecture; loved him during that abysmal first date; loved him while getting on that dooming flight to Germany and watching him fall apart; loved him every single day of the fifteen years that he slowly, laboriously and without thought built a wall around himself to keep outsiders from getting into his head and into his heart. “I always have.”

He thinks, maybe, they were born for each other. And maybe Sam is a guardian angel and maybe…maybe soul mates exist, because he can’t think of any other reason for his love to go dormant for so long, but never extinguish. And maybe letting Steve Rogers go was the biggest mistake of his life, and maybe when he wakes up tomorrow morning this glimpse will be over and he’ll be back in a world without Steve but _maybe_ there’s a way to fix it. Maybe that was the point of this whole thing all along.

He lifts Steve under the thighs, carries him to the bed and mouths along his neck as Steve laughs and looks over his shoulder to make sure they’re not on a collision course with the wall or some other piece of furniture. Steve grunts when Bucky drops him on his back, fists a hand into the coverlet and pulls it off the bed. Steve arches his back off the bed to assist, leaves nothing but the balls of his feet and his shoulder blades touching the bed and Bucky’s cock jerks in his pants. He throws the coverlet aggressively towards the loveseat, heedless of the fact that it lands about two feet short, and kicks off his shoes to climb onto the bed astride Steve’s hips. He kneels there, yanks his shirt off at the back of the neck and sends it the way of the coverlet.

“I love you,” Bucky breathes, because now that he’s started saying it he can’t stop. He slots their open mouths together, tastes Steve’s sweet wetness and reaches down to pop each button on that button fly, crams his hand into tight denim and cups his fingers around hard warmth, feels Steve gasp into his mouth and the twitch underneath his hand and electricity under his own skin. He rolls his hips, gets his friction against the jut of Steve’s hipbone, lets his eyes flutter closed and nips Steve’s lip. Groans.

“Bucky—Bucky—“ Steve breaks away, kicks one leg out from underneath Bucky and gets it around his waist, rolls his hips and suddenly he’s on top with what seems like very little effort, pressing down on Bucky’s groin with all his weight. He grins and grinds down _hard_ and Bucky moans, gets his fists into the sheets and grips them for dear life. He opens his eyes when Steve eases up, sets his hips into a maddening, circular motion that makes Bucky think of whirlpools, of optical illusions that just go around and around. Bucky looks down between them, at Steve’s unbuttoned pants and the red underwear peeking out, at the thick line of his hard penis against his hip and the golden blonde hair at his navel going _down_.

Steve grins. “Lookin’ at something?”

“I’ve seen better views, to be honest,” Bucky breathes, because he’s half out of his mind with the back and forth of Steve’s hips, with that smart little motion of forward and _up_ , and Bucky doesn’t know where he learned to do it but it’s _killing him_.

“Oh yeah?” Steve breathes, and then he’s hooking a thumb into his waistband and pulling down long enough to reveal the crook of his thigh, the barest glimpse of something red and round and glistening before he lets it snap back into place, and Bucky actually whines.

In fifteen years, he’s somehow forgotten what a fucking tease Steve can be.

“Stevie, c’mon,” Bucky breathes, reaching for his waistband. Steve grabs his wrist, pins it to the mattress and Bucky opens his mouth to say Steve’s name again, but what comes out is more like a whine of, “ _Steee—_ “ and then a choked-off moan because forward and _up_.

“Relax,” Steve says, and he soothes a hand between Bucky’s legs, grins at the heavy breath he releases. “We’ve got time. For once we’ve got time.”

“Foreplay is for childless couples and teenagers.”

“I _miss_ foreplay,” Steve sighs wistfully. With one hand, he undoes Bucky’s button and zipper, gets a hand inside his jeans and wraps his hand around Bucky’s cock through his boxers, leans down until their chests are pressed together and his hand is caught between them. “We used to have sex for _hours_ , Buck. D’you remember that? When was the last time sex even lasted _an_ hour? Probably before Peter was born.” He presses his mouth to Bucky’s, works his hand over him and yeah, he knows what Bucky likes.

Then he swings a leg to dismount, twists around and slides off the bed. Bucky feels cold without him, but before any protests can make the transition from thought to vocalization, Steve says, “One second,” and crouches down to rummage around in the front pocket of the suitcase. Onto the bed, he throws a bottle of lube. He stands up and grins, obviously pleased with himself for remembering such things and expecting praise.

Bucky glances between his unbuttoned jeans and his grin and says, “I love you,” earnestly, roughly. Almost immediately followed by, “Wanna see you naked,” and a heavy sigh as he lets his own legs fall open, both a calculated bribe and invitation. It’s been a long time since he’s pulled out moves like these, because sleeping with women is different.

Most women don’t expect him to spread his legs. There had been a few, and they’d been interesting, but it was a far cry from the real thing—from the burning, throbbing heat of a man inside of him. With the women he was almost always the aggressor, but sometimes he wanted to be taken, to be laid out and torn apart. It’s been a long time since he could do anything but sit there and let the urge pass.

(And is it strange that all of that, all of those women, suddenly feels like infidelity? He doesn’t know, and it’s too late to change anything now. It was different then, and what feels like a lifetime away.)

He can’t say he hasn’t learned a few things from them though. How to sigh and drop his legs open and arch his back almost like it’s an accident. He remembers it making the hair on the back of his neck stand up straight in the best way possible. He watches Steve furrow his brows and struggle to keep his jaw from hitting the floor, pats himself on the back for a job well done.

Steve leans against the bed, reaches down to pull off his shoes and send them flipping halfway across the room. Pulls off his socks—and Bucky’s too, while he’s at it, because he’s really serious about that no socks in bed thing—and then hooks his fingers into his waistband, tugging down in an ungraceful movement that’s nonetheless hypnotizing because of the way he twists his hips to get them off. He’s left standing in his boxers and a T-shirt, one that bears the logo of Hawk’s Eye Sporting Goods on the front and says _Captain America_ on the back, like a slightly more tolerable version of the bowling shirt. Bucky is sure he has a matching one somewhere, embroidered with the ever-puzzling moniker Sergeant Barnes once again. These ones are for some annual flag football game against the staff of a sister store. Bucky wishes he could have seen it, Steve running around with a flag hanging out the back of his jeans.

Bucky wishes he’d been around for a lot of things.

Steve doesn’t take what remains on his body off, but gets back on the bed and settles back on his heels between Bucky’s spread legs. He runs his hand up along the inside of Bucky’s thighs, fingers tracing a hard line over the inseam of his jeans. His touch leaves a tingly sensation as it goes, not the heady throb of earlier but far from inadequate. Bucky opens his mouth and lets out a heavy breath, lets it catch on his vocal chords and produce the quietest of deep-throated moans.

Then he pitches forward, mouths along the trail from Bucky’s navel until his lips hit the waistband of his jeans and he’s tugging them down with both hands. Bucky lifts his hips to help and accidentally clamps his thighs around Steve’s head for a short moment. Steve takes it in his stride, uses the leverage it gives him to pull Bucky’s pants below his hips and then thread his arms underneath Bucky’s knees, plant his hands spread on the sensitive skin just below the waist on either side of Bucky’s abdomen. Then he lifts himself up just slightly and bears back down, takes Bucky unhesitatingly into the warm wetness of his mouth. Bucky throws his head back and _howls_.

Steve smooths his hands, dry and cool, over Bucky’s stomach and hips and thighs over and over again. Makes noises in the back of his throat, the kind of high pitched involuntary ones that arise when a person is breathing around a large mouthful. Bucky digs a heel into his back, threads his fingers through his hair and pants like a dog in the sun.

“That feels so good, Steve,” he breathes, watches Steve’s red, swollen lips as they work, watches the sides of his cheeks fill out. “Yeah…mmm, _yeah._ ” In moments of the near past, when he wasn’t as secure in who he is and what he wants, he’d probably be embarrassed about the sounds coming out of his mouth. Fortunately, these are different times. He lets himself groan and whine like he’s dying, because he kind of feels like he is. He lets his head fall back against the bed, can’t handle the strain of keeping his head up with no support from the rest of his body. He lets himself enjoy this, enjoy that beautiful blond head bobbing between his legs because it’s one of those things you’re supposed to enjoy in life; a kind of _stop and smell the roses_ moment. Smell the roses; watch the sunset; eat a slice of cake every once in a while; let yourself moan when your husband goes down on you. It’s utterly, painfully simple.

He almost lets himself whine when Steve pulls away, but then he's kissing Bucky's navel, swirling his tongue and saying, "Tell me what you want, baby, tell me what you _need…_ "

"Ah, fuck," Bucky hisses, arching up against his mouth, that sinful mouth, that beloved mouth. "Fuck me, baby, _God,_ get inside me."

This is not something Steve needs to be told twice. He sits up immediately, swings a leg back over Bucky’s thigh and rolls onto his side, props up his head and says, “Take off your pants.”

So Bucky does, lifting his hips of the bed and shoving his jeans the rest of the way down his thighs. Steve helps him, grabs the ends of his pantlegs and tugs. They come free all at once like a slingshot, and Steve falls back against the bed with the momentum. He doesn’t let it hinder him, just balls the jeans up and throws them somewhere unseen in the room. On his side again, he retrieves the lube from where it has rolled underneath his own thigh, squeezes onto his fingers and reaches a hand down between Bucky’s legs. His hair falls into his eyes again, hovering there with a grin on his face and his slick finger teasing.

“Hey you,” Steve whispers as he presses his middle finger against Bucky’s perineum and then down, puts gentle pressure on his entrance. Presses a kiss to the center of the tattoo on Bucky’s biceps and murmurs, “S’okay?”

“More than,” Bucky whispers, wriggles an arm under Steve’s side and up the back of his shirt, traces his fingers lightly in a line over his spine. Steve shivers and lets out the smallest huffed laugh. Bucky grins and pillows his head on his other arm. Steve sinks his finger in to the first joint and Bucky’s eyes flutter closed. He bites his already abused lower lip, lets his legs fall as far open as they’ll go. Steve throws a thigh over Bucky’s own, and Bucky can feel the hardness between his legs through one layer of soft cotton.

Steve pants in wet breaths against his shoulder as he works his finger all the way in, until his hand is snug against Bucky’s ass and his finger all the way inside and gets the pad of his finger over Bucky’s prostate and strokes. Bucky’s legs twitch up like some virgin in the backseat, and he can feel Steve grin against his skin, feels the heat gathering in his belly and pooling up and down as Steve keeps his finger there, rubbing back and forth in little circles. Steve whispers, “You like that?” like he genuinely cares, like he’ll attempt to switch something up if Bucky isn’t enjoying himself.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes, and then, “Gimme more,” and grunts when Steve slides his index finger alongside his middle. Rolls his head against the bed and scritches a finger up Steve’s back and then up into his hair, pulls his head down to press their mouths together, to slide his tongue into Steve’s mouth and slowly across the roof of his mouth.

Steve works him open slowly, like it’s his damn job to make sure that Bucky doesn’t feel one bit of discomfort. There is some, of course, because it’s been a long time, longer than Steve could ever possibly realize. It burns when he slides in a third finger and scissors them, but he bears it, doesn’t say anything because he wants this, he wants Steve inside of him more than he can even comprehend for himself. He wants Steve as close as humanly possible because he’s suddenly afraid that everything is going to go away any moment.

“You okay?” Steve whispers as he pulls away to change his position, to kneel next to Bucky’s splayed knees to give himself more leverage, to let his wrist rest. “You’re awfully quiet.” It’s dark, because they never turned on any lights in the room and it’s past eight now, and Steve’s voice seems to float to him on shadow, through a haze of the pressure between his legs and the shapes that are forming behind his eyelids in response to Steve’s fingers out of some strange, sex-influenced form of synesthesia.

Bucky opens his eyes, looks into the twin pools of shadow where Steve’s are and says, “Yeah, ‘m just…enjoying myself, I suppose.” He trails his hand up and down Steve’s arm, can feel the hair on his forearm standing up in the wake of his fingers. “Trying not to say anything stupid.”

Steve grins, tilt his head to the side, lowers it to kiss Bucky’s knee. “Y’know that’s not possible, pal.”

Bucky chuckles, reaches down to Steve’s wrist and pulls his hand away, leaves it to drop to Steve’s side and hooks a finger into his boxers. He pulls them down low enough to catch underneath Steve’s balls, grins at the erection that springs forth as though reporting for duty. Says, “Fuck me, Stevie,” and when Steve finally pulls his fingers out and pushes himself inside, Bucky wraps his legs around his waist, holds on for dear life. Steve isn’t strong enough to make this huge bed hit the wall, but with every thrust of his hips, Bucky slides up an inch or two on the mattress and then back down. He loves it, loves the feeling of being full and the clenching of Steve’s hands slowly leaving bruises on his hips, the sharp tingle of Steve sucking a bruise over one of his ribs and the steady in-out, the throbbing, the building of pressure. Steve presses his forehead against Bucky’s neck, pants wetly against the hollow of his throat. Bucky tangles the fingers of both hands into Steve’s hair and swears devotions towards the ceiling as his body steadily hitches up and down on the duvet, up two inches down two inches with the motions of Steve’s hips.

He groans his climax into Steve’s ear, _I’m coming Stevie oh God—there it is I’m there I’m there—_ and Steve follows in almost complete silence, save for a frantic panting against his neck. Hot wetness shoots up inside him, a stomach full of liquid heat like too much liquor. When it slides down between his legs after Steve pulls out, it feels kind of naughty, kind of like he’s been marked and ruined and made completely and utterly Steve’s. He enjoys it with eyes closed and belly heaving to catch his breath.  
  
Steve’s seed is still trickling a warm and sticky path down the inside of his thighs when Bucky spoons up behind him, kisses the back of his neck and murmurs, “Can I ask you a question?” against the right side of his head, right above where his tattoo is.

“Of course,” Steve murmurs, quiet but not asleep because they’re just resting, they’re just taking a pause because this is not the only time they’ll do this tonight, certainly not the only time they’ll do it this weekend. Bucky has big plans for this bed and the loveseat and the windowsill and, depending on how big it is, the bathtub. Bucky plans to either fuck or be fucked on nearly every surface in this room over the next thirty-six hours. Ideally, the goal is feeling the memory of Steve for as long as possible, even when he’s returned to where he came from.

Part of him still thinks that he’s going to fall asleep tonight and wake up tomorrow morning back in his own bed.

“Why’d you let your hair grow out?” He mouths the question against said strands of golden hair.

Steve turns over in the circle of his arms, gives him a look like he thinks it’s a strange question to be asked. At the same time, he doesn't seem altogether baffled by it. He pillows his head on both arms. Bucky moves his hand up Steve’s side, through the soft hair under his arm and down over his nipples. Steve says, “Because it went out of style and…I grew up. Undercuts aren’t really professional. Scalp tattoos even less so. Nobody takes you seriously if you look like the nineties chewed you up and spit you back out.” He grins at his own metaphor, moves his finger up Bucky’s stomach just barely touching. Bucky’s stomach twitches, tickled. “Why?”

“Just wondering,” Bucky mumbles. “I, uh…I liked the tattoos, you know? I’ve thought about getting mine removed like a hundred times but something always stopped me and I figured it might be the thought that you had the matching one and…it made us linked? I dunno.” He runs a finger through the hair above Steve’s ear again. It puzzles him that he still knows exactly where that little circle of ink is. “I liked what they meant to us, even if I had no idea what possessed us to get them or even what the symbolism is, really. Not anymore.” Maybe they meant something to their drunken selves at the time, but if they did Bucky can’t remember for the life of him.

“Well, if you’re looking for logic, I think it’s in the bottom of some long-lost tequila bottle,” Steve sighs, and swings his legs out of bed. He goes around the bed, crouches next to the suitcase. It’s still a mess from when he went tearing through it earlier looking for lube, but he manages to find Bucky’s sweatpants in the mix. He pulls them on, pulls the drawstring tight around his hips and ties it in a bow. There’s so much leftover string that he could probably wrap it around himself twice, but Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“I don’t even know what they’re supposed to be,” Bucky sighs, head pillowed on his arm. He watches Steve cross the dark room and pick up the empty ice bucket. “A star on a bull’s eye? I mean…what?”

“They’re shields,” Steve chuckles. “It was a doodle I drew on a napkin at two AM in a Denny’s. You found it in my pocket that night and we decided that it would make a great tattoo. Except it wasn’t colored, so I told you to pick the colors. You picked red, white and blue because you’re a sentimental jerk. The rest is history.” He comes back to lean with his thighs against the end of the bed, arms folded over the ice bucket in front of him. “Or, y’know, permanently marked on our skin. Symantics.”

“I’m surprised you remember all that,” Bucky says, glancing at the tattoo on his biceps. “All I remember is waking up with this thing.” He smoothes his thumb over his tattoo, which always felt just slightly different from the surrounding skin, even though he knew it was psychosomatic. He hasn’t thought about it, except in vague ponderings over tattoo removal, in ten or more years. Now it’s all he can think about. It must mean something that he never got the thing removed despite considering it so many times.

To Steve, he says, “D’you regret it?”

“No,” Steve says immediately. “I never did. Back then, it felt kind of like a promise.” He pushes away from the bed, shuffles towards the door. “It still does, I guess. But we’ve got different promises now, too.” He spins his engagement ring, possibly out of unconscious habit or possibly in some very purposeful gesture. It’s not obvious, and never will be because Steve doesn’t comment on it. Just says, “I’m gonna go get ice,” and leaves the room.

* * *

They stay in bed for what’s probably a straight twenty-four hours, until approximately fifteen minutes before their reservations at the restaurant upstairs. Bucky finds that Steve packed his new suit, which he puts on with just the dregs of his former guilt pooled in the back of his mind. He slicks his hair back, pairs the suit with the tie Steve also packed for him—and maybe Steve has some sense of fashion, because the tie compliments well.

Steve comes up behind him in front of the full-length mirror on the backside of the bathroom door. Steve’s suit is obviously worn, but it fits him well and compliments him with a dark blue shade that’s only slightly lighter than Bucky’s. It’s not a great suit, and if it was anyone else Bucky wouldn’t be incredibly impressed, but Steve is…he just looks good no matter what. Bucky doesn’t understand why someone can look at Steve and not be intimidated by the delicate brand of beauty he exudes. Bucky was. When he first slapped eyes on Steve across that lecture hall, he didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

With his head leaning against Bucky’s shoulder and an arm around his waist from behind, Steve says, “God, you’re beautiful,” and stares into Bucky’s eyes in the mirror. He’s completely and utterly lovestruck and Bucky luxuriates in the knowledge of exactly how Steve feels.

“’s funny,” Bucky murmurs, stroking his fingers over Steve’s, “’cause that’s what I was just thinking, lookin’ at you.” He lets his voice be absorbed by the wood and the carpet, like it’s a secret from even the air around them. There’s still an intimate feeling in the air that hasn’t yet left them, even after getting out of bed and showering and putting clothes over all of their reddened, scratched and love-bruised skin. It’ll be gone when the door opens and the cool, fresh air from the hallway dilutes the scent of sex and the raised temperature in the room, but for now it’s still there, and Bucky happily lets it run over his skin.

That blush rises in Steve’s cheeks again. For once, instead of denying or deflecting, he just whispers, “Thank you,” and pushes his nose into Bucky’s shoulder like some kid hiding behind his mother’s skirts. Bucky kisses the top of his head, and then his forehead, and then his lips and pulls away before they miss their reservations.

The restaurant is old news, because Bucky has had every other lunch meeting, dinner meeting and not-covert-covert business meeting in this restaurant. It was his go-to place for bringing executives he wanted to bring over to his side, intimidating enough for those smaller and not as experienced, not too pretentious a choice for those bigger and less likely to react well to delusions of grandeur. Steve, though—he’s pretty damn impressed by the three-sixty view of the restaurant, by the slow rotation of the entire dining room.

“It turns,” Steve mumbles, as he’s lowering himself into a booth seat by the window. To be honest, Bucky is surprised he’s noticed this quickly. It usually takes people about thirty minutes to notice, when they suddenly realize that the building which was out the window next to them when they sat down is now halfway across the dining room.

“About one rotation every hour and a half,” Bucky confirms, nodding. “It’s supposed to give you a full view of New York in the time it takes to eat your dinner.” He knows this because he used to engineer his meetings so that they both began and ended just as The StarkTech Building could be seen, jutting high into the sky on the horizon.

Steve raises an eyebrow as he opens his menu. “Did you come here when you were eight, as well?”

“Hah, no,” Bucky mumbles. Then he spends a few seconds scrambling for an explanation. “It’s just, y’know. The restaurant is all over the website, so I checked it out.”

“I see,” Steve says, and he’s got this furrowed browed look on that doesn’t bode well, is not what Bucky wants from this evening. He folds the menu and sets it down, glances around at the people around them in suits and cocktail dresses, the black and white of the waiters and waitresses milling between the tables. He looks down, obviously self conscious of himself and his somewhat frayed suit. Leans in and speaks under his breath. “Can we afford this?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Bucky breathes, and reaches across the table to cover Steve’s folded hands. “Steve please, for once just let yourself relax. We have the money. I checked. Your last two checks came through on Sunday and I got paid on Monday and _we have the money_. We have upwards of three thousand in our checking and about five thousand in our savings and trust me, this restaurant doesn’t cost _nearly_ that much.” He rubs his thumbs over Steve’s hands. “Is there a day that goes by that you don’t worry about money, Stevie?”

Steve give him a look like he’s an idiot, shakes his head in an abrupt and short back-and-forth movement. “No. No there’s not, Bucky, because we have a mortgage and a fifty-five thousand dollar a year income _in a good year_. We have two kids and sooner or later, we’re going to have to put them through college— _good_ , colleges, Bucky, because maybe, just _maybe_ they won’t be like us, and worry about _money_ every single day of their lives.” He sighs, and clears his throat, and winds down. Wraps his hands around Bucky’s and squeezes.

“I like it when you spoil me, I really do. And I’m going to enjoy it tonight, but I can’t stop worrying. I know that…there are levels to this kind of thing, and we’re better off than most. But I wasn’t always. I grew up in foster care, Buck. I grew up in a house where I wasn’t much more than a government paycheck to the people who cared for me, from the time I was six years old to the time I turned eighteen and inherited what my mother left me and it was just enough—between the liquidation of her estate and everything she’d saved up over ten years of being a nurse—to get myself through college without accruing massive, crippling debt.” He sighs and shrugs. “I want to give my kids something better than that. So yeah, I worry about money. Maybe needlessly at times. But it’s all I know.”

Bucky sighs, squeezes his eyes closed. “I wish you didn’t have to. I wish you’d been able to go to grad school like you wanted and…and why didn’t you? Why didn’t you, Stevie?”

Steve smiles, and shrugs. “Because we used the money to start our lives. We used it to get married and pay the rent in Brooklyn. It seemed like the right thing to do…it _was_ the right thing to do.” He picks up his menu and stares at the prices again, sighs and closes his eyes. “Maybe I’ll just get a salad.”

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky wheedles, and he has half a mind to get up and wiggle himself in next to Steve, in that one-person booth that Steve only takes up a half of himself. “This isn’t our first date, you don’t have to make a point by ordering a salad and laughing at my unfunny jokes. I’m your husband, and I screwed up in a _royal_ way yesterday and I’m trying to apologize for it, so if anyone’s going to be ordering as salad, it’ll be me.”

“Bucky,” Steve sighs, closing his eyes in something that isn’t quite exasperation, “I told you, you’re forgiven, you don’t have to—“

“I want to,” Bucky whispers. “So please, let me?”

Steve tilts his head to the side, stares at him for a second in a way that makes Bucky feel like he’s staring _through_ him, and says, “Okay.” For a third time, he picks up his menu and puts it down. “One problem.”

“ _Steve_.”

“My internal dictionary includes such gourmet terms as Kraft and Hamburger Helper. I have no idea what gnocchi or _barramundi_ are.”

Bucky grins, and actually does come around to sit next to Steve. He grabs one side of the menu like two kids sharing a storybook and says, “Let’s see if we can put our heads together, shall we?”

They order three entrees between themselves because Steve is perversely fascinated by the idea of eating snails, Bucky misses scallops like nobody’s business and Steve wants to have something he can actually _eat_ just in case the snails aren’t all they’re cracked up to be (Or: Bucky wants to make sure Steve has something as another option so Steve doesn’t spend an hour shoveling forkfuls of something he hates into his mouth out of warped obligation) so Bucky nibbles on his ear until he agrees to order something he knows he’ll eat. He orders what is listed on the menu as simply as ‘chicken breast and leg’ and Bucky feels pretty okay about it all.

(Steve likes the snails. They have the chicken wrapped up and eat it cold, naked in bed at three o’clock in the morning.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and yet another attempt by me to write a love scene. As always, you can follow me on tumblr under the same username. Thank you for reading and for all of the wonderful reviews I got for the last chapter. Three chapters left, y'all, you only have to bear with me three more weeks!


	9. Chapter 9

Tony Stark walks in the door of Hawk’s Eye Sporting goods on Monday.

Bucky catches sight of him over a display and feels the most irrational urge to duck down like he’s an undergrad again, mooning over a guy from around two shelves in the school library. He doesn’t, instead glances over at Clint and whispers, “Hey, do you know who that guy is?”

He must say it with the appropriate awe for a celebrity or someone famous, because Clint glances in that direction and asks, “Is that the guy that played Sherlock Holmes in that one movie?”

“No. That’s Tony Stark.”

“Oh,” Clint drawls. “I’m guessing that’s someone important?”

“His father,” Bucky whispers, “is the chairman and founder of StarkTech, a Fortune 500 company responsible for some of the most revolutionary innovations the tech world’s ever _seen_. Instead of leaving the company to his son, Tony, _that guy_ ,” Bucky gestures, pointing below the shelves so that Stark cannot see him, “he gave him a five-thousand dollar loan when he graduated MIT and told him that he’d built an empire from the ground up and expecting his son to do any less would mean failing as a father.”

“Father of the year,” Clint mutters.

“For real. But guess what Stark does with it? Go goes and starts up a company that pretty much stands _against_ everything his father stands for. Have you ever heard of repulsor energy? No, because it’s a type of experimental energy that _this guy invented_. It has all sorts of potential uses; medicine, military, auto. People have offered him billions of dollars to weaponize it, but instead he’s sitting on it while he attempts to trigger a mass energy reform, essentially a second fucking industrial revolution. He’s a mad fucking genius and he’s probably going to save the damn world.” It’s all stuff he’s gathered on his own, kept in the back of his mind and away from where it can slip out to be the salt rubbed in Howard’s wounds. The man is almost as aware as everyone around him that his son is building an empire that will probably render his own obsolete within the next fifty years, and it’s probably the contributing factor to his ire for his one and only child.

From fifteen feet away, Tony Stark says, “Hey, it’d be great if one of the sales guys who are gossiping in the corner would actually come help me.”

He and Clint exchange a wide-eyed look of sheepishness, and Bucky takes it upon himself to straighten up and round the display. He holds out his hand. “Hello, sir, I’m Bucky Barnes and I’m the general manager here, actually. The, uh, gentleman over there is my boss and the owner of the store, and I apologize very much for—“

“Relax, my friend,” Tony Stark says, and pats Bucky’s shoulder as he stares at a display of crossbows. “I’m just as flattered by the drooling fanboys as the next billionaire but, unlike the next billionaire, I don’t expect the fanboys to apologize for their drool.” He gives a tight-lipped smirk. “Most of the time. We’re all experts in our respective fields, Bucky, and yours appears to be archery, so you’re going to be the one helping me today.”

“Of course,” Bucky says, nodding. “Yeah, of course.”

“I need something that looks impressive and does nothing.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“My father,” Tony says, “has invited me to go hunting with himself and the frog in a suit who runs his company for him and has told me to bring my fiancée with me. My fiancée, who runs my company for me and is _not_ a frog in a suit…she’s more like…a gazelle in a ball gown, but a very pretty ga—okay, bottom line, she hates everything about guns and killing animals for sport, and for a person who runs and played a major role in founding a company based in clean energy and the deweaponization of the energy race, that’s completely understandable. I want something that I can give her to use that looks like she knows what she’s doing but that she won’t hurt herself on because she’s great at lot of things—a _lot_ of things—but archery is not one of them.”

“Have you thought about _not_ going hunting with your father?” Bucky inquires. He’s been hunting with Howard. It was a weekend of gratuitously shooting expensive firearms and self-congratulatory monologues that had Bucky bored to tears within the first two hours. He spent the entire weekend wondering if he was going to be the next Harry Whittington.

Tony gives another one of those tight-lipped smirks. This one is a bit exasperated. “Let me tell you something about my father, Bucky. He only respects people if he fears them. Everyone else is either a plaything or a pawn. My father has only respected three people in his life. Two of them have been women, one of whom was my mother. The third one became me after I surpassed the full worth of his company overnight with an energy source that, officially, doesn’t even exist yet. I fully intend to make the fourth person the woman I love, because it’s very important to me that everyone respects her. If that means that I _literally_ have to put a weapon in her hands, I will do that.” Stark tilts his head to the side. “So, are you capable of helping me with the dilemma I have on my hands?”

There’s really no response to that but to smile and nod, say, “Yes sir.”

It’s an item he has to special order, and he brings Tony Stark into his office, invites him to sit down with a cup of coffee as he does so. Tony comes into his office, but denies both the coffee and the seat, choosing instead to stand in the center of the room and rubberneck around Bucky’s tiny office like it’s not the size of a shoebox. He turns around each of Bucky’s pictures in turn, makes little noises and says, “Is this your family?” like he feels obligated to ask. Like someone along the way taught him that it was impolite to touch someone’s personal effects and then not at least pretend to be interested in that person’s life.

“Uh…yeah,” Bucky says, glancing at the picture Stark currently has his hand on. The one of Steve. “That’s my husband. The little girl in the other picture is my daughter, America. She’s five. My son Peter—the baby, in the blue blanket I’m holding there—is eighteen months.” He clacks away on his keyboard for a moment, glances up and mumbles, “Do…you have kids, Mr. Stark?” because it sounds like the kind of thing a guy who doesn’t actually know another guy’s entire life story would say, and he’s trying really hard to convince this guy that he doesn’t know absolutely everything about him.

“Ha, no,” Stark says, like the idea is both genuinely funny and absolutely preposterous to him. “I figured out a long time ago that the only way I wouldn’t mess up a kid like my father did me was to not have any.”

Bucky snorts, rolls his eyes slightly and mutters, “No offense, man, but your father’s an idiot.”

Stark raises his eyebrows. “What do you mean by that? I mean, I completely and wholeheartedly agree with you, but I want to know what brought you, personally, to that Earth-shattering conclusion.”

“Same way as you, I guess,” Bucky mumbles. He doesn’t want to admit, even to himself, that he’s intimidated by Stark’s presence, but he is. He feels like he should be wearing a suit right now, sitting in a boardroom. Not in this broom closet of an office wearing his Hawk’s Eye uniform with the addition of an old grey flannel thrown over because Natasha’s Russian and some unwise person decided to give her sole control over the backroom thermostat.

Head tilted to the side, Stark says, “I really doubt that you lived through eighteen years of him calling you various permutations and synonyms of the term _crushing disappointment,_ but okay, sure. We’ll go with that.”

“I mean,” Bucky says, with a roll of his eyes that he doesn’t even try to hide this time, “we both realize that your father is so blinded by his own ego and stale ambition that he’s failing to see what’s right in front of him.”

Stark is still for a long moment, arms crossed, then moves very suddenly to sit in the chair in front of Bucky’s desk. Crosses his legs, brows furrowed in consternation. “Elaborate.”

Bucky pauses for a moment, hands hovering over the keyboard. Tony doesn’t move, keeps him leveled with that stare that has too much intelligence and too much wisdom in it to be in any way nonthreatening or reassuring, but Bucky nevertheless feels compelled to speak. He leans back in his office chair, folds his hands across his lap and says, “If your father knew what was good for him, he would have sold his company to you years ago. If not when your company started mass marketing _holograms_ , the shit that sci-fi tech literally _revolves around,_ then definitely the minute after repulsor energy was discovered and you turned out to be the guy who cracked it open.

“Howard Stark isn’t getting any younger. When he dies, who’s going to inherit his company? He’s effectively disowned his only legitimate heir, who _knows_ if he has some illegitimate contender to the throne who’s going to pop out of the woodwork when he dies—it doesn’t matter. It’ll all end the same way. Your father dies, a lot of money goes up in the air, shareholders start jumping ship. You can’t take your money with you when you die, I don’t care if you’re Howard Stark or Bill Gates or Carlos Slim Helu, that’s just not how it works. Your father is behaving like he’s immortal, like nothing will ever challenge his company because he’ll always be the one at the helm. If StarkTech is allowed to continue without a chairman in the event of your father’s death…well, companies don’t survive very long in situations like that. And yeah, StarkTech isn’t everything, but it’s a very important _part_ of everything. An economy that’s still recovering cannot survive the impact of a major conglomerate like StarkTech internally hemorrhaging.” He leans back, steeples his fingers and shrugs. “If I was Arnim Zola, I’d have your number on speed dial.”

Stark seems surprised. He raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“If I was Arnim Zola,” Bucky says slowly, “and your father dropped dead, I would be calling you before the body even hit the floor. If I was Arnim Zola, I would have been building my contingency plan from the moment I got that job. I would have convinced Howard Stark years ago that I was the closest thing to a son he had, convinced him that the best thing for his company in the event of his death would be for its president to look out for its best interests. I would have told him that I didn’t give a fuck where he squandered his fortunes, because I don’t need anyone looking at me like a housewife who poisoned her husband for the insurance money, but that I needed a guarantee that I’d get no less than 51% of the company. Then, when the inevitable happened, I would call you up and offer you my condolences and my share of the company. If I was Arnim Zola, I would be prepared to sell StarkTech to you, even if the last words out of Howard Stark’s mouth are _don’t let my son touch this fucking company_ , because that’s the only way that StarkTech is going to outlive Howard Stark.”

Stark asks, “And how do you know Arnim Zola hasn’t already done all of this?”

“Two reasons,” Bucky says, raising his index and middle finger in demonstration. “One, Arnim Zola is all but spineless. It doesn’t take a genius, or even someone who knows him, to realize that. Two, if Arnim Zola had done something like that, you’d know about it. At some point, he would have gotten himself in the same room as you, even if only for a few minutes. Standing at the bar at a restaurant, or against the wall at a party or at the sinks in the men’s room. He would have figured out some way to extend an olive branch so that you knew your father’s grudge against you and yours would not be carried on after his death.”

He thinks of the one time he’d ever met Tony Stark in his own timeline, New Years Eve 2010 and just over three years since he’d become StarkTech President at the almost absurdly young age of twenty-nine. Remembers bellying up to the bar alongside Tony Stark, introducing himself. _I’m James Barnes; if Howard Stark goes down, I’m not letting StarkTech go with it._

They’d understood each other very well and never spoken again.

It takes a moment, but Stark’s lips curl up just slightly. He says, “Good answer. Just out of curiosity—what are your qualifications?”

Bucky smirks. “Thanks. I did a five-year MBA program out of NYU. I spent my last year in the program as a junior sales associate with N. J. Fury and Co. It was supposed to be an internship with Hydra in Germany, but…shit happened.”

“Awesome,” Stark says, like he couldn’t be less interested in the answer to his own question, and pulls out something from his wallet. It’s a business card—the Stark Industries logo, an address and phone number. “Is five o’clock on Saturday good for you?”

“Um…excuse me?” Bucky asks, still scanning the business card. If he’s not mistaken, the address is for the as of yet unfinished Stark Tower going up in Brooklyn currently. The structure is all there and most of the floors have been furnished, but rumor has it that Stark is busy putting in several floors of luxury apartments, and nobody from the company has started working out of it yet. Stark himself, from what Bucky has heard, is currently Malibu-based, although that can admittedly change in the blink of an eye.

“My cook, whom is also my butler and my driver and my all-around henchman, makes a mean soufflé,” Stark continues, heedless of Bucky’s confusion, “but he’s really old-school so he serves dinner before six. I’ve tried convincing him to have it later. I’m like, Jarvis, you’re not supposed to eat dinner while you're still trying to digest lunch, but—“

“You’re asking me to come over for dinner,” Bucky says, deadpan.

“Sure seems like it, huh?” Stark says, eyebrows raised for effect. He gets out of his chair, sliding his wallet back into his pocket. “Bring your husband. Bring your kids! Actually, don’t do that, the place is still an active construction zone, but definitely bring your husband. He doesn’t look like he gets out a lot.” He looks back down at the picture of Steve, which Bucky hasn’t thought to turn back around yet. Bucky isn’t sure if it’s commentary on Steve’s skin tone or his size, but neither sits well.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, shaking his head and his hands to stall Stark’s mile a minute babble. “Why? Why are you inviting me to dinner? I’m lost.”

“It’s not so much dinner as…a job interview and a meal,” Stark says. “So, do I need to pay you for that thing, or…?”

“Uh…no, not right now, but you’ll have to come back in when the item arrives, so…er…Mr. Stark, are you offering me a job?”

“Well, as far as I’m concerned, you as good as _have_ it,” Stark says, waving a hand flippantly, “but Pepper made me write into her contract that I can’t make any employment decisions without her consent, so the interview is more or less a formality for her sake.” Bucky must look more or less like a dear in the headlights, because Stark sighs and looks at the ceiling, rubs his hands together and says, “Okay, so…you didn’t really think I came all the way to New Jersey to buy a fancy crossbow, right? I mean, that’s something I actually needed, but I could have just as easily gotten one in one of the ten thousand sporting good stores in Manhattan. What brought me here was the resume that your boss—Natasha—gave to Pepper when they met up for coffee last week.”

“Natasha and Pepper Potts have coffee?”

“Yeah, it’s like a monthly thing for them. They were roommates for awhile back in the nineties.” Stark shakes a hand impatiently. “That’s not the point though. Natasha gives your resume to Pepper, says you’re way overqualified for what you’re doing right now and you’re exactly what we’re looking for in a COO—that’s the position, by the way; Chief of Operations—and blah blah, I dunno, so Pepper gives me your resume and I’m like hey, wow, this guy _is_ grossly overqualified for being the general manager of a ma and pa store in Paramus. That was about two hours ago. Now I’m here.” He spreads his arms slightly, as though indicate his already obvious presence. “So, five o’clock on Friday?”

There’s really no way to respond to that but, “Uh…yes.”

“Cool. I’ll see you and…” He stares at Steve’s picture on the desk. “…M…ark…?”

“Steve.”

“Huh, he looks like a Mark.” Stark shrugs and backs the rest of the way out of the office. “I’ll see you and Steve-not-Mark on Friday at five.”

Bucky sits in his office for a long time after Stark leaves. Only just barely has the piece of mind to actually turn his pictures back around and straighten them back from where Stark skewed them. Nobody comes looking for him, which probably speaks volumes about the truth in Natasha being the one to organize this whole meet cute. When he finally has his bearings about him, and it doesn’t feel so much like he’s been catapulted into an alternate universe (and he, of all people, should know what that feels like) he takes out his cell phone and calls Steve.

Steve answers on the first ring, and Bucky doesn’t even wait for him to say hello.

“So you’re never gonna guess who just invited us to dinner on Friday…”

* * *

Stark Tower, as of its completion in June of last year, is the tallest building in New York—although some people argue that it’s not in New York proper, being located in Brooklyn as it is. It graces the waterfront of DUMBO, right on the edge of Brooklyn Bridge Park. Standing at the foot of it is nothing short of intimidating, even for someone who used to walk amongst skyscrapers every day. Bucky remembers the tower being born in something of a controversy, something about Stark Tower knocking One World Trade Center out of the tallest spot before it even opened, but Bucky is kind of impressed.

Next to him, Steve squints up at the 107 floors of pure modernist architecture in front of them and says, “What an eyesore.” Steve has been skeptical of this whole thing from the moment Bucky called him, because _billionaires don’t just show up in New Jersey offering people jobs, Buck; it just doesn’t happen_. Bucky can understand the concern; it does sound like something straight out of Comedy of Errors, but he’s heard murmurings his entire career about how eccentric Tony Stark can be.

“You called the Freedom Tower majestic,” Bucky mutters. “They’re literally the same style.”

“The Freedom Tower wasn’t so obviously compensating for something,” Steve mutters, and yeah, that’s kind of a sick burn and Bucky’s always loved Steve when he’s sassy, but right now he just wants to get inside and get this over with. He ignores Steve’s grumblings and leads the way into the lobby of the building. A sign out front indicates the building as being closed and the Grand Opening as being three months from now, but the doors also open without any protest and there is a woman sitting at a polished granite desk in the middle of a polished granite lobby. It’s a cavernous space with a line of elevators against one wall and a grand archway against the other, leading to parts unknown. Behind them, the wall of windows into which the doors are set let in all the natural light New York in February has to offer.

The woman at the desk, whose nametag reads _Maria_ and whose very aura feels like that of someone who could remorselessly kill a man, says, “You’re the Barnses?” and her husky voice bounces off every available surface, making it seem like there are at least ten of her talking to them. Steve winces and adjusts his hearing aid.

“Uh, yeah,” Bucky says. “We’re here—“

“I know,” she says. She looks down for a moment, and her hand comes up with a keycard which she holds out. Bucky crosses the lobby to take it from her. She says, “Scan that against the reader in the last elevator. Mr. Stark’s floor is the penthouse level, 104. Please don’t get out on any of the other residential floors; this building is still being completed.” With that, she leans down over a black box set into the surface of the desk, presses one of its many buttons and into the grated speaker says, “Mister Jarvis, the Barnses are here.”

It takes a moment, but a man’s voice—clear as day; none of the crackling or tininess that intercoms are prone to—comes over, says, “Excellent timing. Send them up, Maria.”

Maria says, “They’re on their way,” and takes her finger off the button, sits back and glances at Bucky expectantly. This is one woman whom Bucky does not want to make a liar of. He gestures to Steve, who takes a full thirty seconds to cross the lobby—and that’s not commentary on the length of Steve’s legs; the lobby is just _that huge_ —and leads the way to the last elevator. Even with the speed of new elevators, it takes about two minutes for them to reach floor 104.

A man in a crisp white dress shirt, black vest and matching trousers is waiting for them. Bucky himself is wearing his new suit jacket with a pair of very dark jeans, because Stark told him business casual would do the trick, but he’s starting to feel very underdressed. Next to him, Steve self-consciously picks at the dark blue cardigan he’s wearing over a white button-up and red tie.

“Welcome to Stark Tower,” he says, and it’s the same voice from a moment ago. “Dinner will be served momentarily; I’ll take your coats for you.”

This is Jarvis, and Jarvis (If he’s not mistaken) is Tony Stark’s butler. Bucky gives him a closer look and has to admit that the guy isn’t exactly the stereotypical butler type; Bucky was expecting him to be a bit older, perhaps balding and perhaps a little thick in the middle. Jarvis is tall and reedy with a full head of ash brown hair and a face that couldn’t be much older than Bucky himself. He does, however, have the presence of one whom spends his life just on the outside of a very prestigious social circle. That, more than anything, is probably what a good butler makes.

Steve takes off his parka and Bucky his sheepskin, and Jarvis carries them off, probably to join a bunch of 10,000 dollar designer coats in some closet in the bowels of this seemingly endless apartment. Bucky glances at each of the four doorways that lead off from the elevator and cannot for the life of him figure out which one they’re supposed to go down.

At last, someone emerges from the far left. She’s tall and strawberry blonde, wearing a powder blue blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt. Bucky recognizes her immediately as Pepper Potts. She smiles at them, giving off this air of sophistication that Bucky always thought was just for the cameras, but apparently not. Apparently, some people really just do ooze grace, and Pepper Potts is one of those people.

“You must be James and Steve,” she says, and she directs it to the air between them, obviously unsure as to which of them is which and too polite to outright ask. “I’m Pepper Potts.”

“James Barnes, ma’am,” Bucky says, holding out his hand. She has a firm handshake for one with such delicate hands. “Please call me Bucky. This is my husband, Steve.” He gestures to Steve with his unoccupied hand, and Steve still has this somewhat sour look on his face, but he smiles at Pepper, greets, “ _Miss Potts_ ,” and shakes her hand.

“Pepper, please,” she says, and then, “We’re starting dinner now, if you’d like to follow me. I know this place can be a little confusing if you don’t know what you’re looking for. Sorry about the mess, we’re still decorating.”

‘The mess’ is a singular paint tarp in the hallway, which isn’t hard at all to step around, and a line of several canvases on the floor, facing the wall to protect them from damage. Bucky and Steve exchange a look, one that says something like _If this is a mess, then what’s our house?_

Dinner is delicious and awkward. Tony Stark comes bounding in halfway through, covered head to toe in some kind of oil which he doesn’t bother to wipe off before sitting down and digging in. Pepper gives this little, indulgent smile when he does so, and Bucky happens to catch Steve’s eye. It’s the only point during the entire meal that Steve’s expression softens from its unease into something that could be thought of as amusement.

It’s during desert that Pepper really gets down to business. She has Jarvis bring her a manila folder and a pair of reading glasses, and puts them on her face as she opens the folder. She says, “I have to admit that I’m impressed by your resume, Bucky. When Natasha first gave it to me, I was skeptical, but you really have done some very impressive work. Alexander Pierce at N. J. Fury and Co. had nothing but good things to say about you.”

Bucky smiles tightly. Alexander Pierce is a fucking tyrant who Bucky has only had to encounter once in his life, at a board meeting to discuss the possibility of N. J. Fury giving StarkTech the majority shares on a smaller manufacturer called Strike. The idea never got past the planning stages, and he’s never been so grateful for a failed venture. He doesn’t know how his other self would have managed to work under the guy for a whole year, but Bucky gives him props for doing so.

“I’m glad he speaks so highly of my work,” Bucky says, because it’s the most neutral thing he can come up with.

“He mentioned that he offered you an extension on your internship after you graduated,” Pepper says, still looking down at the folder. “May I ask why you didn’t take it?”

“I, uh…” Bucky glances at Steve, who’s very pointedly looking at the three-fourths of cake still on his plate, poking it but not eating it. Rich things don’t agree with Steve in large quantities, and it’s a huge slice of cake. He looks back up at Pepper Potts and says the only thing the comes to mind, “To be honest, Miss Potts, I was young, and I thought there would be a lot of other opportunities coming my way. I passed on that one because I thought there were more important things at the time.”

Pepper seems to take this answer at face value, but Steve has gone suspiciously still and unresponsive. He wipes his mouth on the napkin in his lap and reaches out to fiddle with the stem of his wineglass. He stares at it blankly for a long time. Bucky starts sweating under his collar.

“Natasha has explained your situation to me,” Pepper says, “and I think what you did for her and Clint is…very admirable, to say the least. The startup that you were part of from 2002 to 2009 tuned into a very profitable venture under your supervision, and to leave it for your friends was a very selfless thing to do.” She finally looks up from the folder and offers him a smile, removes her glasses. “The ability to chose what’s right over what’s easiest is a trait that I desire above all else in both my professional and personal relationships. To me, it’s the most important test of a person’s character, and you pass with flying colors.”

Tony, whom until now has been sitting at the other end of the table, picking his teeth with a toothpick, says, “That’s Pep-talk for _how soon can you start_ ,” and grins when Pepper gives a very subtle, very dainty eye roll.

Bucky glances between the two of them, barely daring to breathe in case he’s misunderstood something. Even Steve looks up with something approaching anticipation, hand white-knuckled on his fork. When all Bucky gets is more of the same—Pepper’s polite, controlled smile and an expression on Tony’s face that’s damn near a leer—he asks, “Are you serious?” and Pepper’s smile gets deeper, more indulgent.

“Yes,” she says. “We need to go over some paperwork in the coming weeks, obviously, and it’s your choice whether you’d like to start on the company before Stark Tower opens and work from home, or start after you can move in—“

“Move in?” Bucky asks. “Like into my office?”

Pepper pauses mid-sentence, mouth open halfway. She stutters, “Uh…” and stares across the table at Tony. Bucky gets the impression that this is not a woman who stutters very often, let alone one whom is ever confused. She looks it now though, with a furrowed brow and pursed lips in Tony’s direction. “I would have thought Tony…”

“We want all our executives to be live-in,” Tony says, and he’s leaning back in his chair like he’s two seconds from kicking his feet up onto the table. Steve is staring at him like he knows exactly what he’s about to do, and like he might have a heart attack if he does. Steve doesn’t even let Bucky _lean_ against their table at home. “Call it a perk. The apartment will be all but rent-free, you’ll have the shortest commute probably in the history of forever, and you’ll be almost smack-dab in the middle of the greatest city on Earth.”

“Live in?” Steve mumbles.

“Tony wants Stark Enterprises to operate as a residential, self-contained business,” Pepper says. “Essentially, Stark Tower is made to operate as its own small city. Our executives live in the building and therefore are available at all times—within reason, of course. It’s a way to make ourselves accessible to the outside world and avoid the sterile relationships that businesses tend to have with their customers and partners. Besides, we don’t want to be the company with a CFO splitting his time between an apartment in Manhattan and his family home in Connecticut. It’s best to put forth an option that benefits the entire family.”

“So…” Bucky mumbles, rubbing his forehead and then setting his hand, fingers spread, on the table. “You want me to move into this building? With my family?”

“Yes, of course,” Pepper says, nodding with all the earnestness one person can put into a single back-and-forth motion. “The apartments are going to be full-floor penthouses, and we’re capable of specializing them to accommodate your lifestyle.  The spaces can support a variety of different floor plans; it’s all just a matter of putting in dividing walls. I’m assuming that your children will each want their own bedroom—“

“They have their own bedrooms now,” Steve says, with this protesting tone in his voice, “even though they’re really not old enough to care—“

“No, of course, I understand that. I was just saying…”

“Why don’t we just show them one of the floors, Pepper?” Tony says, loudly over the building tension in the room. He hops up from his chair, and Bucky is surprised that there is no stain on the chair from whatever substance it is that he’s covered head-to-toe in. “Can we do that? I think that would be easier.”

Pepper glances between Bucky and Steve, and then over to Jarvis. She asks, “Do you know what condition floor 100 is in, Jarvis?”

“The painting crew finished their work last night,” Jarvis says. “They left the windows open to air things out a bit, so it might be quite chilly, but other than that it should be presentable.”

“Awesome,” Stark says, and claps his hands together. “Let’s go.”

It’s very chilly downstairs. The elevator lets off into a floor that’s very different from the one they just came from; obviously unfinished with the floors concrete and raw and the walls only painted with a base of stark white. It’s also very open, separated more into areas than rooms. One is clearly recognizable as a kitchen area, from the counters that are already there. Next to it, through an archway, a living area; huge and probably the size of most of their ground floor at home, with a long row of floor-to-ceiling windows that show the New York skyline and lead onto a balcony. Off to one side of the living area, a hallway leads off into unseen territory. Pepper leads the way through the apartment, explaining, “There is room for anywhere between two to four bedrooms off the hallway over there. The default is two, but that can be easily fixed. The floor plan calls for three full baths…”

She keeps talking, but Bucky tunes her out as he follows Steve, who wanders through the apartment to the windows. He stares out, over the East River and towards the lights of Manhattan at night, arms crossed against the chill.

He says, “It’s beautiful,” and he doesn’t sound happy about it.

“The kids would love it,” Bucky says, coming up behind him and setting a hand on his hip. Steve pulls away, shifting his body in a way that says he doesn’t want to be touched, and Bucky shouldn’t try again. Annoyance tugs at the base of his mind, at his impulse-driven lizard brain, and he snaps, “ _What_?” very quietly, because it echoes in here and he doesn’t want to cause a scene in front of these people.

“The kids would love it for a hot second, Buck,” Steve says, tossing his head because apparently rolling his eyes just isn’t enough in this situation. “Then they’d start to miss home. You know how kids are. They…they don’t take well to change. Not like this.”

“This’ll be a new home,” Bucky murmurs, “they’ll get used to it. Peter’ll be too young to remember New Jersey; it’ll be like he was never there. It’ll be like we never had to settle for suburbia. I’ll be making four times what we make now combined. We can move back to Brooklyn; we can move back home, and we’ll never have to worry about money again.”

“Are you…” Steve glances at Pepper and Tony and Jarvis, whom are all trying very hard to make it look like they’re oblivious to what’s happening across the room. Voice dropped into an even lower, even more dangerous octave, Steve growls, “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

“Not last I checked, no,” Bucky hisses back. “What’s the problem? Huh? We can put the kids into good schools—“

“America goes to a great school, Bucky,” Steve says, “one where she has _friends_ —“

“I’m talking about the best schools in the country here, Steve! You want to put our kids through good colleges? Good colleges _beg_ kids to apply from some of these high schools—“

“What are you _thinking_?”

“I’m _thinking_ that we can give our kids everything that we never fuckin’ had, Steve!”

“What…what about my commissions, my studio?”

“Steve! This is New fuckin’ York; you don’t think you’ll find studio space around here? Hell, look at this apartment! You could make a studio here for God’s sake. With two-hundred grand a year, I’ll make you the prettiest damn home studio New York ever saw.”

“You’re…you’re not…” Steve sighs, drags his hands down his face and lets loose with a loud, angry exclamation that makes the three across the room jump. Bucky thinks he’d be shocked, too, if he didn’t know Steve; big sounds like that are not expected from small people like him. “You’re not making sense! I thought the reason we left—I thought the _whole reason we left New York_ was because we didn’t want to raise our kids here! I thought the reason we left the city was because it was _dangerous and we wanted our kids to be safe_.”

“Look, I wasn’t expecting to be asked to move my ass back here, but it’s what happened, and I’m pretty sure that there are ten other qualified guys waiting to take my place if I don’t do this—“

“So let them,” Steve says, giving a vicious movement of his shoulders that can only be described as a _violent shrug_. “Let them, Bucky! We don’t need this. We don’t need a luxury apartment and two-hundred grand a year and fancy schools. We have a good life, Bucky. I _like_ our life. If you don’t, _talk_ to me about it! Don’t go behind my fucking back and get a new career. Don’t try to take our kids away from everything they’ve ever known and the only house we’ve ever lived in as a family.” His jaw clenches. “Don’t do that to me, Buck.”

“Steve,” Bucky mutters, lowering his head to stare in Steve’s eyes, the cornflower blue flames burning out of him. “I’m talking about us having the kind of life that people envy. How can you pass that up?”

Steve shakes his head, looks up at the ceiling and swallows hard. He pushes his hair back from his forehead and grunts against his own anger, lowers his gaze back to Bucky’s and says, “Don’t you see, Buck? We already do. Do you know how many people like us would be happy die for a taste of what we have? Kids, and a house to call our own, and friends—good friends. A happy, stable life somewhere we don’t have to hide who we are and how we feel about each other. Do you know how fucking lucky we are, Bucky?” He furrows his brows, shakes his head. “I don’t get why you can’t see that.”

Before Bucky can even try to respond to that, Steve takes off in the direction of the elevators. Over his shoulder, he snaps, “I’ll wait for you in the damned car,” and disappears into the elevator.

Bucky watches him go, speechless and still trying to process how everything went so _wrong_. He stares at the closed elevator doors for a solid minute before he gets his wits even slightly about him, glances at the three gathered at the far end of the room. He stutters, “I should—I…I’m sorry, he usually isn’t…”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Buckaroo, but your guy doesn’t seem like the type who wants to be apologized for,” Stark says, eyebrow raised. “If he’d felt bad about the little disappearing act he did just now, he’d’ve apologized for himself.”

He wants to protest, wants to tell Tony Stark that he knows nothing about Steve or about their relationship, but he’s more or less hit the nail on the head and there’s nothing Bucky can say to deny if that won’t feel like lying. He runs a hand through his hair, takes several halting steps towards the elevator where Steve disappeared, and sighs loudly. “Then I’m sorry, I guess. I should have…” he turns, makes eye contact with Pepper Potts, “Please give me a few days to…think about it and talk it over with my—with Steve. Please.”

Pepper smiles and nods, hesitantly like even she isn’t certain of how to act in this particular situation. Says, “Of course. It was always my intention to give you a few days to think it over. I know it’s a lot to think about.”

“Yeah…it’s, uh…yeah.” Bucky sighs, tugs his lips between his teeth and plants his hands on his hips. “Could I, uh…I need our coats. I need to go catch him, he doesn’t…” he barks out a laugh, shakes his head, “He doesn’t even have his damn coat, and it’s got his car keys in it; I know it does…”

“Jarvis…” mumbles Pepper, touching the butler’s arm.

She doesn’t need to say anything else. Jarvis bobs his head like she’s given a command, says, “Of course; I’ll take you to the coat room, Mister Barnes.”

Bucky follows, mind spinning faster than the damn globe itself. Jarvis is at least quick about getting him the coats and sending him on his way back down the elevator. Steve, the stubborn monkey that he is, is leaning against the car with his hands shoved in his pockets, glowering against the flurries of snow that are passing in front of him on the wind. Bucky tosses his coat at him, says, “Put that on, for God’s sake; you’ll catch your death out here,” and Steve puts it on but doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t say anything the entire ride home, either. Bucky lets him have his silence, tries to wait out his anger, but when they pull into their driveway and Steve has gone well over an hour without saying anything, Bucky takes the keys out of the ignition and listens to the engine tick down for a moment, listens to Steve’s nose whistle as he breathes heavily in his remaining furiousness. It’s obvious that he’s waiting for Bucky to speak, waiting for him to explain himself.

“I don’t want to fight,” Bucky starts, because it’s always good to play the sympathy card first. Steve doesn’t bite. He tries again. “I didn’t want to upset you, Steve. That’s the last thing that was on my mind today, and I’m sorry it turned out the way it did; I wasn’t expecting them to say that either. I’m sure that I could negotiate something, I’m sure that if I talked to them, they’d let me commute—“

“It’s over an hour each way, Buck,” Steve says, and he tosses his head as he says it, kind of like the stubborn mule he is on the inside, but at least he’s talking. “That’s three hours of commute a _day_. When would you ever be home? I’d have to drive America to school in the morning, and the logistics of that are just…and what about Kate? I’d have to pick her up too, because she can’t spent three hours a day in an archery store, Buck. Once in a while is fine but accidents are bound to happen if she’s in there all the time—“

“No, I know that,” Bucky says. “But Natasha and Clint would understand. Natasha’s the one who gave my resume to Pepper—“

“ _Natasha_ has a bad habit if sticking her nose into places it doesn’t belong,” Steve growls, and it’s a vicious thing that almost makes Bucky jump for how spiteful it sounds. “She had no right to do that, Buck. I’m sorry, but she didn’t. She’s one of our closest friends, but sometimes I feel like I just can’t trust her, and shit like this is one of the—“ He stops, perhaps because he can hear what’s coming out of his mouth, shakes his head and squeezes his eyes shut. “I can’t talk about this right now. I need to think. I need to cool down. I need to—or I’ll say something I—“ he shakes his head again and opens the door of the car. “Pay Carol and put the kids to bed.”

“Steve—“

“Bucky, _please_ ,” Steve says, and it’s a guttural noise, like he’s actually begging. “I don’t think it’s a lot to ask. Put our children to bed, pay the babysitter, and don’t bother me for awhile.” He slams the car door and walks into the house. Bucky sees him walk into the kitchen through the first window, but doesn’t see him pass the second window. He’s gone into the basement.

Bucky remains in the car for several minutes, only getting out when Carol starts peering at him curiously through the blinds.

America has been learning how to play the recorder along with the rest of her class. She isn’t very good at it, and for the past week since they were first sent home with the recorders to practice, it’s been a nonstop litany of pitchy whistles coming from her room. Bucky can hear her as he puts Peter to sleep, thankfully faint enough that it doesn’t bother Peter. He kisses Peter’s forehead before he walks out the door, bending far over the side of the crib and pushing back his baby’s curly brown hair to brush his lips there before straightening up and walking out of the room.

He stands in the doorway and watches America play, staring at herself in the mirror as though to make sure she has the fingerings right. There are so many sour notes that it’s impossible to tell what she’s trying to play, if she’s actually playing a song at all. Finally, she ends the song (or just stops) and lowers the recorder as she glances at him in the mirror. Says, “Hi, Daddy.”

“Hey, babydoll,” Bucky murmurs, and crouches down next to her. “What were you playing?”

“Hot Crossed Buns,” she mumbles, looking down at the recorder in her hands.

“Ah, a classic,” Bucky says. Sets a hand on her back, moving it in comforting circles, keeping his voice low so that he doesn’t run the risk of waking Peter. The baby monitor is shoved into his back pocket, and it can pick up anything above a murmur. He asks, “Were you good for Carol tonight?”

“Yeah,” America says. She stares down at the instrument and the floor, and Bucky can see her furrow her brows just before, “She said that you might get a job. In the big city.”

“It was a possibility,” Bucky sighs, “but…I don’t know. Your other daddy didn’t seem too happy about the idea. It’s something we’re going to have to think about.” He stands up, crosses the room to pull back her blankets and reaches over to turn the nightlight on, but pauses before his hand gets that far. He turns back around, sits on the bed and says, “Say, what other songs can you play on that thing?”

“We’ve only learned Hot Crossed Buns and Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” America mumbles, somewhat mournfully.

“Why don’t you play Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star for me? And then I’ll read you a story before bed.”

America stares at him for a moment, contemplative. Then she smiles—happy and bright and content all at once; an expression that Bucky doesn’t think he’s seen on her face before and one that reminds him, strangely enough, of Steve—and nods. “Okay.”

Bucky doesn’t think she hits a single right note, but he still smiles until his jaw hurts as she plays.

* * *

An hour later, when the clock strikes eleven and Steve is still downstairs probably throwing paint viciously onto an undeserving canvas, Bucky pours himself a glass of Scotch because he’s the reason behind Steve’s ire for probably the sixth time in as many weeks and he feels pretty damn shitty about it on the whole.

The papers in the office den would have started gathering dust by now if Bucky didn’t make a point to come in here every few days, move things around and shuffle papers just to make it look like he’s still using the area. Just to make sure Steve doesn’t catch onto the fact that he’s not completely sure what to do with any of it. Sure, he ostensibly knows what the papers are—the Bucky of this life has a filing cabinet dedicated entirely to credit card records, tax returns and W2 forms spanning back at least as long as they’ve lived in this house—but he really wouldn’t know where to start, and it hasn’t seemed like his place.

Now he’s in here because, he supposes, it’s his place. The dog has been trained not to come in here and this is the first place Steve will look for him when and if he decides he wants to talk. The den is to Bucky what the basement is to Steve, and he thinks that must be how it’s always been.

There are two bookshelves haphazardly stacked with no sense of order. _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ is shoved in between _Green Eggs and Ham_ and a worn, dog-eared copy of _HTML for Dummies_ that Bucky might have owned in college. Along the top shelf are a series of large volumes that don’t look like they’ve been touched since they were put there. Upon closer inspection, Bucky realizes that this is because they are mostly text books. One of them is Steve’s copy of _Art in Theory_. It was the required text for the art history lecture they met in. He knows it’s Steve’s copy, because Bucky never bought it.

He reaches up and takes it down, brushes off the dust clinging to the spine because it really has been up there for a long time, and opens it to the first page. There on the flyleaf, as he knew it would be, is a faded message written in pencil.

 _Thanks for letting me borrow your book._ Then, a few scratched out scribblings and, in very small print, _I’d like to take you for coffee sometime. I have a cell phone. Here’s the number:_

He stares at the number, which was the number belonging the huge brick of a cell phone that his mother got him as a high school graduation gift. The same number he has almost twenty years later.

For some unfathomable reason, he signed the message _James Barnes_ , even though at that point in his life nobody called him James except for his mother—and the day he met Steve Rogers, Bucky’s mother was less than six months from the car accident that would take her life. It resulted in a somewhat awkward encounter when they next encountered each other, where Steve tried calling him Jim and for one short, nauseous second, both of them wanted to forget they ever met. Then Bucky chuckled off his embarrassment and informed Steve that he did not under any circumstances go by _Jim_. Steve blushed a pretty rose color and the rest is history.

Further into the book, there are doodles that Steve drew during lectures, notes in the margins and on one half-blank page that Bucky covered in his narrow, left-slanting scrawl over Steve’s shoulder at three AM the weekend before spring finals. They were laying in Steve’s lofted bed and Steve was reading by the light of a lamp clipped to the guardrail. Their naked skin was sticking together under the heavy blankets as Bucky pressed little kisses to Steve’s neck and wrote _I can’t give you anything but love baby, it’s the only thing I’ve plenty of…_

Bucky knows they’re in there without having to look, but he still goes through anyway, looking at each and every one. Some of the pages are coffee-stained, some of them still have eraser shavings sticking to them, and Bucky considers blowing them away, but he doesn’t. There’s something terribly sentimental about the whole thing, but he indulges in it, because it’s been a long time since he’s let himself indulge in his nostalgia.

He puts the book back where he got it. As he’s forcing it onto the tight-packed bookshelf, he realizes that a smaller book has nudged itself into the space where the text book belongs. He has to toe up to get his hand on it, but once he does he pulls it down and fits the text book, nice and snug, back where it belongs.

The small book in his hands is a copy of _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_. It’s so small that the yellow envelope someone was using as a bookmark the last time the book was put down pokes out of both ends and the side. He takes it out and discovers that it’s not an envelope at all—rather, it’s a Lufthansa boarding pass. The ticket he never used. He opens it, glances at the date—December 27, 1999—and sighs to himself.

Below it, the origin and destination—New York/JFK and Berlin/Tegel—are for some reason listed in reverse. He stares at it in consternation for several seconds before he realizes that Berlin/Tegel is listed as the departure point.

“From Berlin to New York,” Bucky mumbles. He lets his mouth fall open, because this is not something he had even considered.

That rather than never getting on that plane, he had—and had chosen to come back.

One the other side of the room, the door clicks twice. Open and shut. The sensation of someone else being in the room tickles at the back of his neck until he can’t ignore it anymore, and he turns around. Steve is there, leaning against the French door with his hands flat against the windows. There’s paint speckled all up and down his arms and hands; half a dozen big splotches on his undershirt. Bucky isn’t sure Steve owns an unstained undershirt.

“What’re you looking at?” Steve mumbles. His hands are fiddling nervously with the window molding. Bucky holds up the boarding pass, and Steve gives this little reflexive smile. “Our defining moment.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says vaguely. He backs up until his knees hit the seat of the beaten up recliner and he sits. Steve creeps into the room and sits facing Bucky on the edge of the desk, presses his socked toes to the arm of the chair and clasps his hands between his knees.

“When you got on that plane,” Steve says in an almost-whisper, “I thought…I honestly thought I was never gonna see you again. I must’ve sat in that airport for two hours, just crying…because I was convinced that it was over, that I’d just let the best thing in my life walk away. Then you showed up the very next day.” He folds his arms over his lap, leans down until his chest is touching them. “I think about you on that plane, and what must have been going through your mind when you made the decision to throw everything away and come back for me. I think it’s the most beautiful thing that anyone’s ever done for me, and I thank God every day that you did it.”

Bucky thinks about Steve sitting in that airport. Thinks about a Steve that he never came back for and wants to cry. He reaches out and brushes his fingers over Steve’s knuckles. Steve turns his hand over, intertwines his fingers with Bucky’s.

“Maybe I was naïve,” Steve sighs, “but I really thought we were gonna get old in this house. I thought our grandchildren were gonna visit us here, and that…thirty years from now, this would still be the place that our kids called home, and we’d have these big family dinners on Thanksgiving and Christmas. I…I really wanted that, but maybe it’s time for me to sacrifice a little, right? Maybe, for once, it’s me that needs to do something for you.”

“You do _everything_ for me,” Bucky says, and it comes out as almost a snarl in his vehemence. He can’t believe that Steve isn’t able to look at his own actions and realize that he has put so much more into this relationship than could ever be reasonably expected of him.

Steve smiles, glancing out the window at the grayness of night, at the rapidly-falling snow catching the light off the full moon. The forecast called for nearly six inches overnight. He sweeps a thumb under his eye, moves his nail back and forth as though to scratch an itch. When he pulls his hand away, the pad of his thumb is wet. Bucky pretends not to notice.

With a shaky breath in and out, Steve sighs, “I love you, Buck,” and glances back at him, offers a smile that’s not as fragile as Bucky would have thought. “Aside for our children, you’re the thing I love most in the world. So if this what you need…if this is what’ll make you _happy_ , then I’m in. I will take these children from everything they’ve ever known—because you’re right. They’re young enough that they’ll adjust, and America’s too sweet not to make friends everywhere she goes. I’ll give up this house, even though I love it. Because I love you more than our address. You chose us fifteen years ago, and I’m returning the favor now. Okay?”

Bucky nods, slowly at first and then faster, and waves his hand at Steve, murmurs, “C’mere, bud, c’mere.”

Steve does, gets off the desk and onto the arm of the chair. He slides down it when Bucky wraps an arm around his waist, nestles into his side with his legs drawn across his lap. Bucky looks up at him, because Steve’s eyes are just over his head in their current positioning, and murmurs, “I’m gonna turn down the job.”

“Buck—“

“No, I’m not gonna be that selfish,” Bucky says, and brushes his fingers over Steve’s collarbones. “I’m not gonna be the one to say _me me me_ when all you’ve been saying for the last fifteen years is _us us us_. Alright? I’m not gonna be that guy, ‘cause it’ll just make it all the more obvious that I don’t deserve you.” And he doesn’t. If anything has been proven to him by the past weeks, it’s that Steve Rogers (Barnes) is entirely too good for him.

“Don’t say that,” Steve murmurs. “You know it’s not true.”

Bucky grins. “Only it kinda is.”

“Babe…” Steve breathes at length. Presses their foreheads together.

“What?” Bucky says, same volume and tone and lilt, and kisses him. “I’ve made my decision, okay?”

Steve licks his lips, glances between Bucky’s eyes, and nods. “Yeah, alright.” He slides off Bucky’s lap, straightens himself out as he stands, stretches and says, “I’m going to bed. I’m gonna take America to get her hair cut early tomorrow, so if we’re not around when you wake up, don’t worry.”

He leans down, kisses Bucky. Bucky cups a hand around the back of his head and keeps him there for two more, then lets him go with a murmur of, ”Goodnight _,_ ” and watches him walk out of the den, watches the hall light turn off as his hand brushes against the wall.

An hour later, after Bucky has read the first six chapters of _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_ and finished his drink, he gets up and leaves the den, turning off lights behind him as he goes and dropping the glass into the kitchen sink. Upstairs, all the lights are off. He pokes his head into each of the kids’ rooms, making sure they’re sleeping peacefully and because it’s something parents _do_. Both of them are smooth-faced and untroubled in their sleep. Bucky leaves the doors cracked and slides into the master bedroom.

Steve is on his side facing the door, leaving his good ear to the open air to hear any noises that might come from down the hall or the baby monitor. Bucky can see from the curve of his body underneath the duvet that he’s got one leg pulled to his chest and the other stretching, reaching to the end of the bed. Bucky smiles to himself. Keeps staring at Steve, at the peacefulness of his sleeping face and the glow of his skin from the full moon peeking through the blinds. He pulls on pajama bottoms and a T shirt, pulls back his side of the blankets and huddles under them. He falls asleep with his nose pressed to the back of Steve’s neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for suffering through this chapter. I'm super aware that it was really dense and mostly dialogue, but it's an important part of the story and of Bucky's progress, so I hope it wasn't completely mind numbing.  
> Also--thank you once again for the absolutely outstanding amount of comments last chapter! They mean the world to me.  
> Two more chapters, y'all.  
> Thanks for reading!


	10. Chapter 10

For the second time in as many days, Bucky finds himself driving into New York. This time, the arrival point is a juice shop called Fruititude. The only time of day that Pepper Potts could fit him into her schedule today was the twenty-five minutes she’d set aside to buy and drink a smoothie. She hadn’t actually fit him in as much as stuttered out a response to Bucky’s last-minute request for an audience with her something along the lines of, “Um, if you can be in the city by noon, I’ll be at a place called Fruititude…”

So Bucky packed Peter up in his carrier and rushed across the George Washington Bridge once again. The juice shop is unmistakable with its colorful sign and large, open windows. It’s also squished between a Bank of America and a Weight Watchers clinic, so it’s not hard to pick out against that backdrop. Pepper Potts’ profile is immediately recognizable when Bucky gets out of the car, hauling Peter and his car seat in one hand and the baby bag over the other shoulder.

“Miss Potts,” he greets to announce his presence, and she looks up from her smoothie—something green and not very appetizing, but Bucky’s not the one that has to drink it—to smile at him. She’s the kind of person whose smiles are polite but at the same time make you feel like she’s genuinely happy to see you. Steve has a similar power.

“Pepper, please,” she says again, like she hadn’t said it half a dozen times last night. Her attention is drawn, as most are, to Peter almost automatically. A cute baby is a draw that very few people can resist. Bucky swells with a sense of pride whenever Peter causes someone’s eyes to widen with the kind of baby-distinctive glee that Pepper’s are now. “Is this Peter?”

“It is indeed,” Bucky says, and adds, “I’m sorry, but could you hold him for just half a second? I need to get a highchair.”

“Of course,” Pepper says, in that soft, airy voice that everyone seems to take up when they’re around a baby. “I’d love to. Hello, Peter…” Peter makes a couple of guttural, cranky sounds when Bucky first lifts him out of his carrier and hands him to Pepper, and Bucky is worried that he’s going to fuss, but then he settles and makes some vague mumblings against Pepper’s shoulder. Her expression goes soft and she rubs his back. “Aw, what a sweet boy…”

It takes more than the half a second Bucky asked for to receive a high chair—one of the college kids behind the counter has to go hunt for one in an unseen backroom, and it takes him four minutes. While he’s at the counter, Bucky stares at the menu and tries to figure out if there is anything on there actually worth ordering—it’s all juices and smoothies and frozen yoghurt shakes, all of which contain either spinach or protein powder and Bucky really isn’t into that. Also, strangely enough, Belgian waffles, one of which he orders with strawberries and whipped cream. Eventually, after three minutes of stuttering, wondering how to reply to the simple question of _and what to drink?_ a girl takes pity on him and tells him that he can order a custom smoothie. He orders one with strawberry, banana and honey. Both items together cost $10.58. He balks, because $10.58 could feed his whole damn family at Taco Bell.

He’s still muttering to himself about it— _eleven bucks for a smoothie and a waffle, Christ_ —as he drags the high chair over to the table awkwardly under one arm. Some of the other patrons of the shop—college kids, mostly; trying to look cool in their huge glasses and their beanies and their cardigans—watch his lumbering path, and he lets them because he’s got his own damn bank account and most of them probably share one with their parents.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbles, finally screeching the chair up to the table.

“Oh, it’s fine,” Pepper says, still in that high voice, like she’s talking to the baby instead of Bucky. “I don’t mind at _all_ , no I don’t.” Peter reaches up and grabs a strand of her long strawberry blonde hair, and Pepper grins at him.

Bucky smiles, sits down across from her without asking for Peter. “You’re a natural.”

“Oh, thanks,” Pepper chuckles, gently removing her hair from Peter’s fist. “But I really don’t know what I’m doing. Most people I know are single or at least don’t have children. The last baby I held was Natasha’s daughter, and that was…oh, six years ago.”

“Yeah, Kate and my daughter are about the same age,” Bucky says with a nod. “They’re in the same Kindergarten class.” Pepper finally gets all of her hair free from Peter’s grasp and starts trying to maneuver him into the high chair. Bucky leans over, says, “Here, let me—“ but Pepper has already got him settled. Bucky leans back against his chair, nods and says, “Well, either way, you’ll make a good mom someday.”

Pepper lets out a laugh. It’s very similar to the one Tony gave the other day—the kind of polite laugh that one gives when someone has told a joke that isn’t particularly funny, but can be appreciated for its aesthetic purpose if nothing else. She pulls all her hair over one shoulder and says, “I like kids, believe me, but I’ve never wanted one of my own. I know that saying something like that is practically blasphemy to most parents, but,” she shrugs, glances out the window and takes a sip of her green monstrosity, “it’s how I’ve always felt.”

“You’re not going to jeopardize the sanctity of my nuclear family by saying you don’t want one,” Bucky chuckles. He’s not even going to say _I used to think that_ , because everyone’s different, and it could genuinely be something that Pepper Potts does not want, rather than something she’s repressed herself out of even thinking about like Bucky had. And maybe someday, a madman in sweatpants will jump in front of her car and offer her a glimpse and then again, maybe not. Either way, Bucky isn’t the one to make that decision.

He feeds Peter little bites of the waffle off the end of his own fork. Peter is finally getting to that point where he doesn’t push all the food right back out of his mouth once it’s in. Pepper watches with a fond, if somewhat distant, expression and waits for him to finish feeding the baby and start feeding himself before she says, “I’m assuming that you want to talk about the job offer.”

Bucky takes his time chewing, weighing his options and trying not to take all day about it at the same time. Pepper is patient, but he doesn’t want to keep her waiting for too long.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, with a nod. “I, uh…I don’t think it’s for me, to be honest.” He’s going to continue, to explain himself, but Pepper is already giving this sage, understanding nod like this was what she expected to come out of his mouth all along. He closes his mouth, leans back against his chair. Gives a sheepish little chuckle. “But you knew that, didn’t you.”

“Natasha told me that you probably wouldn’t take it,” Pepper says, swirling what’s left of her drink with the straw. “She said it was a long shot even as she was handing me your resume, but after I saw your qualifications I had to try. I wasn’t expecting Tony to do what he did, by the way, and I’m sorry if he’s what spooked you—“

Bucky waves his hand, shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. I’ve dealt with people like him before.” Howard and Tony, for all of their bluster, are incredibly similar people. The fruit does not fall far from the Stark tree.

Pepper smiles, and to Bucky it’s the kind of smile that reads as disbelieving, but he hardly feels the need to justify himself. “I don’t usually agree with Tony…at least, not with his wording on certain subjects, but I have to agree with what he said last night. You’re grossly overqualified for your current employment situation, and Stark Industries could really use someone like you to…help ease it out of its infancy. That being said, I have to ask: are there any accommodations we can make that might convince you to reconsider?”

Bucky glances out the window, glances at Pepper, and then at Peter. He wants to say _yes_ , but he’s almost certain that even Tony Stark cannot accommodate Bucky retaining his current lifestyle in every way while still having the job with Stark Industries. He shakes his head, has the decency to shoot Pepper an apologetic look, but doesn’t feel any shame in saying, “No, I’m sorry.”

“I understand,” Pepper says, with a nod that’s meant to convey more of the same sentiment. Pepper Potts is a carefully measured person, does everything just right, just enough. Bucky remembers being like that not very long ago. Not long ago at all.

Still with that same air of measured politeness, Pepper checks her watch—Bucky remembers a time when he wore a watch instead of using his phone for everything, but it’s vague in the back of his mind like high school geography—and announces, “I’m sorry, I should really get going.”

“No problem” Bucky says. He stands up to shake her hand, even though he’s going to sit right back down because he’s not done with his waffle yet. He adds, “If you’re ever in the neighborhood, don’t hesitate to look me up,” just because.

Pepper nods and picks up her bag—a large over-the-shoulder thing that probably functions as much as a briefcase as it does a purse. When she looks back up, she gives him a smile—and this one is a little different. It’s deeper, more genuine. She says, “It really was nice meeting you and your husband. And Peter,” she glances down at him, and her smile gets even deeper at the corners. “I’m honestly sorry we couldn’t work something out.”

“If it makes you feel better,” Bucky says, “someone was always going to be disappointed. You know that whole picking what’s right over what’s easy thing? Sometimes I have a hard time turning that off.” He reaches out, runs his hand over Peter’s hair. “I’ve got a lot of important things in my life that I’ve got to take care of.”

“Well,” Pepper sighs, “You know what they say about the good ones. Turns out, it doesn’t only apply to romance.”

It’s enough to have Bucky burst in a startled bit of laughter as she walks out the door. Pepper Potts has some spark in her, that’s for sure. 

* * *

By the time they get home, Peter is cranky and ready for a nap. The Jetta is in the driveway, so Steve and America are already home. Bucky hopes Steve wasn’t worried too much, because Bucky didn’t think to call him before taking off to the city. It’s the kind of thing that would rile Steve up if he was in the right mood, but he’d seemed okay after they talked last night. Bucky treads on eggshells across the lawn and into the house, carrying the fussy Peter with him.

Steve is immediately visible upon entering the house, jackknifed into the L-angle of the living room sofa. His computer is on his knees and his head is leaning on his hand, long fingers threaded through his hair. It’s shorter than it was last night. He says, “Hey. America’s over at the Bartons’.”

“Hey,” he says. Peter continues fussing into his shoulder, but he still detours into the living room to get a kiss. If Steve was bothered by finding the house empty when he returned, he doesn’t mention it—and it’s the kind of thing Steve would mention. He says, “I went into the city to meet with Pepper Potts,” anyway, because full disclosure is the kind of thing that keeps a relationship safe from implosion.

“How did she take it?” Steve mumbles, tilting his head up. He glances at Peter and murmurs, “Ooh, pouty baby, pouty baby! Looks like someone needs a nap,” and warmth swells in Bucky’s chest because this is his family, this is a quiet Saturday afternoon and Steve is cooing at their baby and something tells him that this, right here, is what he’s always wanted.

“Tactfully,” Bucky eventually says, because there’s really no other way to describe that conversation. He jerks his head upstairs. “I’m gonna go put him down. Be back in a minute.”

It truly only takes a minute to put Peter down, because he’s never been difficult about going down for naps—although Bucky thinks that’ll change once he starts to talk—and with the afternoon light still streaming in cheerily through the window, all he has to do on exit is grab the baby monitor and leave the door cracked.

He sits down against the arm of the couch after taking off his coat and toeing off his shoes. Steve glances at him over the top of his computer, bites his lip and folds the laptop down. He stretches his toes out to meet Bucky’s, lets Bucky start a game of footsie before hesitantly announcing, “I may have done something a little…crazy.”

Bucky freezes, left foot halfway up Steve’s calf. “How crazy?”

Steve takes a long inhale. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Oh, you know…” Steve makes a vague gesture to go along with his vague mumblings.

“Stevie, you’re killing me here.”

Then Steve says, “Here, let me show you—“ and gets up, shuffles along the carpet to sit next to Bucky’s hip. He reaches up to his hair, gets his fingers in it and pulls the longer strands flopping over his ear back. The hair that was there last night has been shaved away, reveling his hidden tattoo. Bucky reaches out and runs his fingers over it, the smooth skin there. Steve says, “It was a bit…impulsive. But it turns out fashion is reversing itself. Undercuts are back in style.” He lets his hair drop back down, and it covers the tattoo nicely. You wouldn’t know his head was shaved if you weren’t looking for it. “Do you like it?”

“Do _you_ like it?” Bucky asks, because yeah, he more than likes it, but it’s not his head they’re talking about. He runs his fingers through Steve’s hair again, pulling it back to look at the tattoo again, because he can’t help himself.

“Yeah,” Steve says softly. “I do.”

“Good,” Bucky replies, and cups his hand over the back of Steve’s head, kisses him there, over the tattoo. He noses against Steve’s ear, murmurs, “Y’know…with this hair, you could be twenty years old.”

Steve scoffs into his ear, but Bucky pulls him closer, shifts so that Steve can lay beside him. Bracketed by the couch cushions on one side and Steve on the other, Bucky stretches his arms above his head and waits for Steve to settle, waits for his ear to drop over his heart and his breathing to smooth out. He murmurs, “’s true, though,” and trails his fingers lightly through Steve’s hair. Steve closes his eyes, gives an ambivalent sigh and Bucky grins, because Steve lives to be contrary. “When is Miss America expected to return?”

“She’s staying the night,” Steve mumbles. He’s already half-asleep. The baby isn’t the only one who needs a nap. “I’m thinking pizza for dinner.”

“Sounds good,” Bucky says. He drops his hand from Steve’s hair to his back, moving up and down in long, soothing strokes. “Hey Steve?”

“Hm.”

“I love you.”

Steve smiles against his chest, eyes still closed. He doesn’t reply, probably because he’s beyond the point of voluntary speech, but his thumb makes one slow, absentminded stroke below Bucky’s ribs. Bucky closes his eyes and joins him in sleep.

* * *

Three more inches of snow fall on Sunday night. Combined with the six inches of Friday night, it all but paralyzes the city of Paramus. Clint calls him at five AM and tells him not to bother coming in, because he’s not going to open the shop when nobody in their right mind is going to try to get to it. Bucky falls back asleep almost immediately. At seven AM, America runs in and hops on the bed.

“’Merica!” Bucky rumbles. “Don’t jump!” Next to him, Steve moans his agreement.

“Sorry,” America whispers. She clamors over them and nestles into the crevasse between their bodies. She’s silent for what must be a record four minutes before she says, “Do I have a snow day?”

“Yes,” Steve sighs, and rolls over to look at her. Bucky cracks his eyes open to look at them sharing a pillow, Steve’s hand running through her now shoulder length hair. “So you can go back to sleep.”

They lay there for a moment, foreheads pressed together. Bucky considers the pros and cons of trying to get his cell phone and snap a picture. They look so peaceful like that, Steve half-asleep and America’s childish features gone soft and untroubled with her proximity to her parents; the kind of expression that sinks into a person’s face when they know they’re safe. It would be his new cell phone background for sure, and probably his contact photo for the home phone. It might also be a good addition to his desk at work. He decides to risk it anyway.

The flash isn’t on, but the sound is. America giggles when it sounds. Steve growls, “Delete that,” but Bucky does no such thing. He puts his phone back on his nightstand and shuffles along the sheets, wraps his arms around two-thirds of his little family and holds on tight.

America is patient for all of fifteen minutes, but then she wiggles and mumbles, “I’m hungry,” and Bucky sighs.

“Alright. C’mon, I’ll make you some oatmeal.”

It’s not that simple, of course. America demands to be let outside to build a snowman, and Bucky has to go outside with her to make sure she doesn’t fall into a snow bank and disappear. He stands there as she constructs three massive balls of snow to be the three sections of the snowman’s body, and then helps her put it together when she realizes that she cannot lift them by herself. The entire time, she’s singing segments of _Do You Want to Build a Snowman_ , which he only recognizes because America and Kate have made him watch it a dozen times since Christmas. He smiles indulgently, finds her some sticks to put on the snowman for arms and lets her dig around in the snow-covered garden for stones to serve as nose and eyes.

He glances up at the bedroom window and happens to catch Steve’s eyes. He’s not too far away to see the soft smile that Steve has on his face, to see the fact that he’s settled himself there in the window with a mug in his hands. Bucky thumps a gloved hand on his chest then points the index finger of the same hand at Steve. Steve grins, points at him and then holds that hand to his heart.

America throws a snowball at Bucky’s head.

Bucky splutters, tosses his head to get the snow out of it. America stands there on the garden wall, giggling with a small pile of snowballs next to herself. Bucky, still all except for his narrowing eyes, says, “So that’s how it’s gonna be?”

She giggles again.

“Alright…alright.” Bucky remains still for three more beats, builds up some momentum and springs. America opens up her mouth and _shrieks_ , and Bucky would scold her, tell her that it’s only eight o’clock in the morning, if he wasn’t busy letting loose with a battle cry as he chases her around the snowman, across the lawn and up the driveway. There, he slips on ice and lands face-down in the snow. America giggles frantically, obviously not aware that he’d tripped, and climbs astride his back. Bucky groans for show, because his landing had been soft and America is not heavy. He rolls over, lifts her under the arms and lets her sit on his chest. She grins at him, hair hanging down in his face.

“Uncle, uncle,” he breathes. “You win.”

Her expressions eases from energetic joy into an innocent, soft happiness that makes it impossible not to hug her. So he does, and as he slots her head under his chin, he hears her whisper, “I knew you’d come back.”

He almost doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Almost.

“Oh, America,” he breathes, and buries his face in her hair, inhales the smell of her, the smell of home, and just about squeezes the life out of her.

“You two okay?” Steve calls from the window. “That was a pretty nasty spill there, Buck.”

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Bucky assures. Pats America’s bottom to get her to stand up, then rolls over himself, onto his knees and then onto his feet. “There’s some…some ice on the driveway; I’m gonna salt it now.” He looks at America, says, “Go inside, honey, get warmed up.” He bends down to peck her on the forehead, carefully walks up the drive to the garage. America follows behind him to go in through the mudroom, because Steve freaks out a little about snow melting in the foyer. He bends to get the lid off the salt bucket and finds it empty. Behind him, the sound of a bell ringing echoes in the cold, still air.

A sharp, sudden sensation of panic goes through him. He whips around to look at America, mittened hand on the handlebar of her bike. He snaps, “America, what are you doing?”

“Ringing my bell,” she explains, and it’s muffled because her pink parka is zipped up to her eyeballs, but she still sounds confused at his outburst.

“I told you to go inside,” he says, and she turns around, a frown in her eyes at his sudden harsh tone. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “I need to go buy salt. Can you tell your dad where I’ve gone?”

She gives a vague mumble of _yeah_ and stomps up the three steps to the mudroom, and Bucky would yell at her for stomping her feet, but he thinks it might just be because she’s trying to get the snow off her boots, and he knows he’s being a bit of a jackass.

It’s just, for a second there, he had a really bad thought.

He can’t shake it off as he drives into town, even though it takes twice the normal time because there’s so much unplowed snow on the ground and because, of course, everyone simultaneously forgets how to drive when it snows more than an inch. It takes him fifteen minutes to do what’s usually a six minute drive, and even then he can’t get rid of his feeling of unease. He feels like he needs to glace over his shoulder, looking for a familiar silhouette, for _him_ —

In the convenience store, where salt is an astronomical five dollars for a fifteen pound bag, Bucky tosses two bags into his cart and wheels it to the front of the store, and his unease only increases. The only other people in the store are the man at the cash register and a twelve year old girl putting a bottle of coke on the counter.

“That’ll be a dollar seventy-five, darlin’.”

Bucky freezes. His head snaps up, his knuckles go white on the handle of the cart. Sam looks up at the same time, meets his eyes with an even, unwavering gaze as he opens the cash register and takes the bill the girl hands him—a five—and makes change for a fifty. Without looking away.

“Don’t,” is the only thing Bucky says. “I’m not going back.”

Sam’s mouth makes a weird curve, like Bucky is a dog with its head stuck in a flap, and glances back at the girl long enough to give her the change. “Twenty-thirty-forty-five-six-seven-eight twenty-five. There you go.” He closes the cash register, looks at the girl out of the corner of his eye. She has on ratty, holy jeans and a jacket that barely looks like it’s suited for cold all, let alone the dead of winter. When she continues standing there, staring at the money he’s just handed her, he asks, “Something wrong, baby?”

She stutters, “I, um…I gave you a five.”

Sam smiles. “Did you? ‘Cause I could’ve sworn you gave me a fifty.” Then he turns back to the register, obviously not intending to do anything about his supposed mix-up. The girl stares at him for silent seconds, then turns and drifts out the door, hand still clutching the money like she’s not sure what she’s supposed to do with it. Bucky steps numbly forward, throws his salt onto the counter. Sam levels him with a searching look, says, “Good to see you, Bucky.”

“I’m not going back,” Bucky says, banging his knuckles on the counter. “ _You can’t send me back_.”

“Got to admit,” Sam sighs, as he runs both bags of salt over the scanner, “I thought it’d take a bit longer for you than it did. You were one of the worst cases I’d ever seen. So stuck in your own self-denial—“

“Are you listening to me?” Bucky snaps. “I’m not going back, do you understand me?” The panic is making his throat close up, wrapping like a vice around his heart. The last time he felt this way, he was driving into New York on Christmas Day. The irony of it isn’t quite lost on him. “You can’t send me back. I’ll…Sam, if you send me back, it’ll kill me—“

“Only if you let it,” Sam says softly. He pushes Bucky’s salt back to him, says, “Ten eighty-six.”

Bucky throws a ten and a one at him, throws the salt back in the cart, shoves his wallet into his coat. “You can’t do this. You can screw with people’s lives like this. You can’t drop me into this life and then tear me out of it, you fucking hear me? I’ve got kids; you can’t do this to me. I’m going home.”

“You ever looked up the dictionary definition of _glimpse_ , Bucky?” Sam asks, leaning against the counter. Bucky would have thought he’d look smug, like every other time Bucky’s ever see him, but there’s something almost sad in his expression. “I think it’s something like _a temporary or momentary view_. It’s an impermanent thing. I’m sorry, but those’re the rules.”

“ _Fuck_ your rules,” Bucky spits. “I’m staying.”

He stomps out the door. When he glances back over his shoulder, there’s an elderly white woman manning the till. No sign of Sam. He runs a hand through his hair and tries to tell himself that it’ll all be okay, that he has more time.

Somehow, he knows he’s lying to himself.

* * *

He goes through the day in a daze. He tries to get himself to snap out of it, because if he doesn’t he won’t get to enjoy what time he does have left, but it all just goes by too quickly. He listens to America practice her recorder for over an hour, and plays with Peter, peek-a-boo and Name That Bodypart, which always amuses him (“Peter, point at your tummy!”) but it’s not enough. He’s on the verge of tears by dinnertime, which he sits through silently, feeding Peter and neglecting to feed himself.

After dinner, Steve agrees to let America watch half a movie before she goes to bed. It’s a Disney movie, but at least it isn’t Frozen—not that it matters; at this point, Bucky would watch Frozen for the rest of his life if he meant he could stay—and he sits with Steve, curled in the L of the sofa with his arms wrapped tight around Steve’s waist and his head on Steve’s shoulder, breathing in Steve’s scent and listening to Steve’s breath. Steve—beautiful, wonderful, _perfect_ Steve—doesn’t even mention the fact that Bucky is holding him like children hold teddy bears. He just runs his hands softly up and down Bucky’s forearms, turns his head to the side every once and a while to press a kiss to his jaw. Every time, Bucky has to close his eyes to fend off tears.

Steve pauses the movie right as their clock chimes nine. “Alright, time for bed.”

“Daddy!” America whines. She’s sitting on the floor in front of the TV, already bathed and pajama-clad. “It was just getting to the good part!”

“You have school tomorrow, America,” Steve says, and he’s always so _patient_ , even when he’s being firm. “I don’t think you’ll have two snow days in a row.”

“Ten more minutes, _please_?”

“America—“

“Just,” Bucky blurts, and Steve stops, turns furrowed brows onto him. “Just let her watch the rest of the movie. How much longer does it have, twenty minutes? Just let her.”

Steve stares at him, brows furrowed and eyes searching. Bucky takes a moment to commit them to memory; the cornflower color of them, the way they’re wide and walnut-shaped and framed by such long, long lashes. Steve sighs and looks away, nods at America and says, “Fine,” presses play on the television. America smiles at Bucky, gets up off the floor to curl into his side. Steve says, “You’re going to wake her up in the morning, though,” and Bucky prays like he’s never prayed before that he’ll be able to get up tomorrow morning before dawn and get his daughter up for a day of school.

America is already dozing by the time the credits roll on the movie. Steve glances around at her, nudges Bucky and murmurs, “Told you so. I’ll tuck her in.”

“No!” Bucky says, maybe a bit too loudly. Steve freezes, half unfurled, and America stirs. Bucky clears his throat, mumbles, “I mean, I’ll—I’ll do it.” He uncoils himself from around Steve, stands up carefully and picks up America. She blinks her eyes open and stares at him for a minute, more to identify who’s picking her up than because she’s actually awake. Her eyes flutter closed after a few seconds. Bucky looks to Steve. “You have any work to do tonight?”

“No, I just finished something,” Steve says. He’s standing up too, stretching his arms above his head and bending backwards. “I’m rewarding myself with an off day. A snow day, if you will.” He smiles and toes up, kissing Bucky on the corner of the mouth. “I think I’m going to bed too, actually. You gonna be up much longer?”

Bucky glances at America and clears his throat. Says, “Just a little while,” and drifts away, up the stairs and into her room. The light isn’t on but her nightlight casts a gentle pink light onto the room. He finds the bed by its light, bends down slowly to let her slide gently from his arms and onto the bed. Letting go of her is one of the hardest things he’s ever done. He stands there staring at her for a long time, gently running his fingers through her hair. Committing every detail to memory because he’s terrified he’s never going to see her again.

Terrified that in the world he’s going back to, Steve Rogers never found her as a days-old infant in a dumpster. That nobody did.

“I love you,” he whispers. Presses a lingering kiss to her forehead.

“Daddy?” America mumbles, stirring.

“It’s okay, babydoll,” Bucky whispers. “Go back to sleep. I love you.”

“I love you too,” America whispers, and rolls onto her side. She doesn’t stir again. He double and triple checks that the windows are closed and takes a full two minutes to walk out of the room, unable to bring himself to move faster than a shuffle. He leans against the doorframe and bows his head, doesn’t bother to wipe his tears away. They make a hot trail down each cheek, drip off his chin and fall his chest. He brings a hand down his hot face, takes in all the air he can—because he heard, once, that breathing helps ease knots in throats, but his isn’t going away. All he succeeds in doing is making a wet, ugly noise in his nose.

He says, “Bye, babygirl,” and leaves her door cracked.

Saying goodbye to Peter is possibly even worse. Bucky stares at him—at his _baby_ —at his own nose and lips and chin-dimple. Peter has fallen asleep with one fist clenched around the spiders and his other fist shoved in his mouth. Bucky lowers the bar of his crib, presses a kiss to his baby-soft cheek and has to turn away quickly, has to cover his mouth to keep his sobs from waking Peter. They’re loud and wet, exploding out of his body with no permission. He hopes Steve can’t hear anything over the baby monitor. The tears fall freely now, spilling onto his hand. He rubs them away, takes in a painful breath and closes his eyes. Listens to Peter breathing.

When he finally works up the nerve to turn back around, he bends down close to Peter again, brushes back his hair. Whispers, “Daddy loves you, Peter. Please don’t ever forget that Daddy loves you.” He kisses him again, straightens up and pulls the crib rail back into place. Bucky runs a hand down his face, trying to get all of the moisture off. Steve will know he’s been crying. He’ll have to wash his face before bed because Steve will know he’s been crying.

Somehow, he pulls himself away. He says, “Bye-bye, Peter,” and makes himself walk out of that nursery. Across the hall in the kids’ bathroom, he washes his face and stands there, leaning against the sink until he resembles a normal person to himself. There’s nothing that can be done about his red eyes, but at least there are no more sticky trails down his face.

Steve is sitting up in bed, reading. Bucky sits down next to his hip, plants a hand on the other side of his waist. Steve lowers his book, smiles in a gentle, sleepy way. Breathes, “Hey. You look bushed.”

“Yeah,” Bucky croaks. He pries one of Steve’s hands off his book, twines their fingers together. Stares at Steve’s face, still trying to commit it all to memory. “I, uh…I know that I’ve done some weird stuff over the last few weeks.”

Steve folds his book. “It’s been interesting.”

“But I’ve done some good things too, right?”

Steve smiles, runs one of those long-fingered hands through Bucky’s hair. “You’ve been Bucky Barnes. That’s always a good thing.”

Bucky smiles, feels the tears welling up again. He looks away and clears his throat, waits to speak until he’s sure he can do it without his voice breaking. It still sounds rough to his own ears when he whispers, “Can you do something for me, Stevie?”

“Anything,” Steve says automatically. There’s a tone of concern in his voice. “Are you alright? You look like you’ve been crying.”

“I…no, I’m just tired…” he runs a hand down his face, feels the telltale tear trail on the side of his face that he’d missed earlier. He clears his throat again. “I, uh…do me a favor, baby. I need you to…remember me.” He glances at Steve; as expected, he’s bemused. “As I am right now. Remember me just like I am. I need you to do that for me, baby. I need you to lock me, just as I look right now in front of you, in your mind.”

“Are you okay?” Steve whispers.

“Just please, Steve. I need you to do this because…if you don’t, it’s like it never happened, and I don’t think I could handle that. Don’t ask why, alright? Please don’t ask, just do me a favor…and do this.” He reaches out, runs a hand down Steve’s face. “Please.”

Steve stares at him for long minutes, brings his hand up to cover Bucky’s. His brows are furrowed in concern, and his eyes have a lot of questions in them, but he doesn’t ask any of them. Because he’d do anything for Bucky, and Bucky had asked him not to question this. So he says, “I promise,” and squeezes Bucky’s hand.

“Promise me again,” Bucky whispers, leaning down to press their foreheads together.

“I promise,” Steve repeats. They kiss, and Steve strokes Bucky’s hair. When he breaks away, he whispers, “Come to bed, babe.” It’s tempting, to crawl into bed with Steve and wrap himself around him and hold onto him for dear life and hope, pray that all of this sick worrying has been all for naught, that he’s not going to wake up alone tomorrow morning. But he pulls away, because there’s one more thing he has to do before he goes to bed. He does it every night, and tonight shouldn’t be any different.

“I’ll be back soon,” he whispers, and pulls away.

Outside and down the street, at an empty park with snow falling slowly in the highlight of streetlamps, he lets Liberty off her chain and watches her bound with joy through the freshly-fallen snow. Bucky tilts his head up to the sky, closes his eyes and thinks, quiet even in his own head, like he’s whispering across the void of space and time to whoever’s listening:

 _Look after them when I’m gone_.

Steve is asleep at home. On his side, eyes closed with his long lashes dropping kisses onto his cheeks. Bucky lays next to him in bed for over an hour, stares at him until his eyelids grow heavy…he blinks them open again, jerking himself back awake. Then they droop again, and this time he can’t quite get them open…

Behind his head, the clock ticks over from 11:59 to 12:00.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muwaha?  
> So, I realize that I'm pretty terrible and you're all probably going to want to kill me for this, but try to hold off, yeah? There's one more chapter and I think you'll like the way it ties everything up, but if you're still unsatisfied I give you full permission to freely punish me however you see fit.  
> Oh also--sorry for the half day's delay in update. My girlfriend came over and was looking over another story for me. She ended up staying the night, and I completely forgot to update.  
> As always, thank you for reading and thank you for the amazing comments I've gotten for the last chapter! I love every single one of them--even the essay-length ones explaining why I'm wrong. |D (That was not a dig in any way; I really, honestly loved what you guys had to say about last chapter; that was some of the best feedback I've ever received for a single chapter of a story. Thank you so much.)


	11. Chapter 11

Next to his head, his cell phone goes off. It’s not _Back in Black_ , not his alarm, so he picks it up and blindly answers because if he lets it keep ringing, it’ll wake Steve, and he doesn’t know how early it is. It’s still dark behind his eyelids. He rasps, “Hello?”

“Mister Barnes, there’s a woman here to see you.”

“Wha?”

Bucky finally opens his eyes. The curtains to the windows are keeping the light at bay, but thin threads of sunlight are peeking through. Around him are the blacks and gray and neutrals of his bedroom—his own bedroom. The one in his penthouse apartment. The one he lives in alone, even though the square footage is roughly double that of the house he shares with Steve.

Shared with Steve.

Or, never shared with him. Might have shared with him. If things were different, if he hadn’t made a dumb decision fifteen years ago. If he’d just…

He sighs, sits up in bed and throws his legs out from underneath the blankets. It’s too quiet. Steve isn’t snoring softly behind him, and there’s no baby monitor on the nightstand. There are no birds out the window; he can’t even hear the sounds of the city, because these walls are sound-proof. The only thing he hears is his own breath and, eventually, Happy asking, “Mister Barnes?” when he doesn’t reply for too long. Bucky runs a hand down his face.

“Yeah, sorry. What’s happening?”

“There’s a woman at the front desk. She says she knows you.”

“Send her up,” Bucky sighs, because it’s the only response he can think of at the moment. He doesn’t even know what day it is. How many weeks of his life has he missed? How is he supposed to function?

How is he supposed to cope with the loss of his entire family?

He glances over his shoulder, at the empty expanse of bed that stretches out behind him. The bed is bigger than the one he shared with Steve, but it looks uncomfortable. Cold. There’s no soft cotton sheets, no Steve with his bedhead and sleepy-bleary blue eyes, smiling softly as he rasps, “Morning, bud.” Bucky positively aches for it.

Part of him wonders if it was a dream, but only for a moment. It was all too real. It was all…so vivid. He doesn’t think he could have made it up; every little detail. He couldn’t have made up America and Peter if he’d thought about it for ten years. He couldn’t have thought up the girl he felt up at a party once just happening to live across the street from him and be his best friend. He couldn’t have made up Steve, age thirty-five and all the more beautiful for it. It couldn’t have been a dream. It’s impossible.

It might as well have been, though. He doesn’t even know where to find Steve. When was the last time he even heard from him? Before he came back from Germany, he thinks—

No. It was a pink sticky note with Sharon’s neat handwriting scrawled diagonally across it: _Steve Rogers. Call after 8._ He crumpled it up. He threw it in the trash.

It’s unlikely that the sticky note is still there, but it’s his only chance.

The clock reads 9:45. On a normal workday, he should have been in the office half an hour ago. This morning, he pulls a pair of jeans after taking off his pajama bottoms, dons a T shirt he usually uses as an undershirt and stuffs his feet into the first pair of shoes he finds. They’re Italian. He remembers a time when shit like that mattered to him; when it was the _only_ thing that mattered to him. Now he just jams the shoes hurriedly onto his feet, standing up and balancing against the wall. He just barely avoids overbalancing and falling, but he has a lot of practice at this point; stepping over the detritus on his and Steve’s bedroom floor.

They never did get around to cleaning it.

He barely remembers to shove his phone his pocket before he runs out the door. His camelhair is hanging on a hook on the closet door, but it’s too big—too oppressive. He opens the closet, roots around until he finds what he’s looking for—a black pea coat that he hasn’t worn in years. It suits his purposes now, makes him feel a little more like the man he was, like the man he’s been for the last two months of his life.

Someone knocks on the door.

He jumps, because he’d forgotten that Happy sent up a visitor. He picks up his keys as he advances on the door, opens it.

A blonde woman stands there, wrapped in a black greatcoat. Her hair and face are all made up like she’s ready for a night out, which Bucky doesn’t understand because it’s only ten AM. She smiles, bright red lip curving into something almost predatory. She looks familiar, but it’s this look—the feral, seductive look—that jogs his memory. His eyes widen.

“Lorraine?” he mutters, stepping back. She takes it as permission to enter the apartment. He barely remembers her from that night all those weeks ago, can’t remember what he would have told her to make her think showing up here would be a good idea. “What are you doing here?”

“My train was cancelled because of the snow,” she breathes. “I’m not leaving for Boston until this afternoon. Figured I’d come give you a little present.” She grins, drops the coat. All she has on is a sheer black teddy.

“Wow,” Bucky mumbles, “That’s almost completely see-through.”

“Like it?” Lorraine murmurs, running one slim, red-tipped hand down from her waist to her hip. “Merry Christmas.”

“You—I—Christmas?” he demands. “It’s not Christmas. How could it be Christmas?” Christmas was two months ago—Christmas was the day he woke up with Steve—Christmas was…

The first day he spent in another life.

“It’s still Christmas?” he demands, taking her by the arms. There are goosebumps all up and down her skin, presumably from walking through wintery New York in only a great coat and lingerie.

Lorraine frowns. “Yeah, of course. You didn’t think you slept that long, did you?”

“I have to—“ Bucky pulls away, lunges for the door. “I have to go to—to work. Sorry. Um, you can borrow something—anything, please—to get back home in. I’m sorry, I’ve just got to—“ He’s already out the door, leaving it open and unlocked because he doesn’t really care right now.

“James, what—“ Lorraine yells down the hall, but he ignores her.   


The roads are almost disserted. Bucky gets in the car planning to head towards his office, but his body has a different idea. He automatically begins navigating a route back to the house; he’s halfway to the George Washington Bridge before he realizes it, and thinks about turning around, but…he can’t. He keeps going, because even the idea that Steve might still live in that house, even if it’s with someone else in the world…he has to see him. He has to know that he’s doing okay, that whoever he’s chosen to share is life with is worth it, worth _him_.

It’s a quiet, tense drive.

The house is the same but…different. It speaks to different inhabitants. Bucky can’t help but notice the lack of snow-covered toys in the yard, can’t help but think about the fact that Liberty’s doghouse is missing. Instead, there are several lawn gnomes along the garden wall, and a pair of folding chairs on the front porch. There is a wreath hanging from the front door, and a small Christmas tree in the window. It’s smaller than the one he took down with Steve after New Year’s, looks like it’s about half that size.

As he stares at the window, a tabby cat hops up, settles itself on the windowsill. Steve is allergic to cats.

His heart is somewhere in his throat as he gets out of his car, slips up the driveway and climbs the steps. He has to knock several times before someone answers the door. An older man, not yet gone gray but obviously feeling the weight of his years; full head of brown hair and bushy eyebrows. He raises them at Bucky. “Can I help you?”

“Does…did…do you know if someone named Steve ever lived here?” Bucky asks. “Do you know Steve?”

A slow head shake. There’s a pitying look on the man’s face, like he thinks Bucky might be lost, or confused. “No, sorry. No Steve here.”

Bucky leans his head against the doorjamb without really meaning to, squeezes his eyes closed and hisses, “Damn. Damn.”

The homeowner inclines his head. “Are you okay?”

“Uh, I’m…I don’t…” Bucky shakes his head. “Sorry, it’s just…I’m looking for a, a friend—“

“Yeah, I can see that,” the guy says, and he’s gentle about it, but he’s clearly wary of Bucky in his current condition. He still hasn’t opened his screen door, speaking to Bucky through the mesh of the upper window. His eyes are soft when he asks, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Bucky just shakes his head. He pushes away from the doorjamb, runs a hand over his face. Shakes his head again.

“Alright…take care of yourself.” He closes the door, leaving Bucky standing on his doorstep, utterly lost.

Across the street, he hears a noise. He glances in that direction, sees Natasha dragging a large box outside. The shock of seeing her almost overcomes the warm sensation that floods through him, the relief, of laying eyes on her distinctive red hair. He hurries down the porch, almost falling flat on his face. Yells, “Hey!” to get her attention and runs across the street without even bothering to see if there is any oncoming traffic. Natasha takes a wary stance—wide, turned to the side to expose as little of her body to him as possible—but still waits for him to cross the street.

“Natasha,” he says as he comes to stop on the curb, breath turning to vapor as he sighs it out.

“Yeah,” she says slowly, suspiciously. “Can I help you?”

“Do you…please tell me you recognize me,” he breathes. “Please.”

She stares at him with, if possible, even more suspicion. She has her hands shoved in her pockets, her eyebrows furrowed. She keeps staring at him, though, which means something good—she would have told him to fuck off by now if she absolutely had no idea who he was. Bucky holds his breath, waits for her to speak.

“James,” she says slowly. “James Barnes.”

“Yes!” he cries. “Yeah, it’s me!”

Her expression becomes one of confusion. She turns towards him slightly, not so suspicious. She jerks her head at him. “Yeah. I remember you. We went to high school together, right? You were on the baseball team, you went by some nickname. Biff?”

“Bucky,” he corrects, even as his heart falls. She doesn’t remember him as Bucky Barnes, trusted friend who lives across the street from her and babysits her daughter. She remembers him as James Barnes, the guy who stuck his hands up her blouse at a party once. He scratches the back of his neck, sighs and closes his eyes.

“What brings you to Paramus?” she asks eventually, and now her voice is just a little gentle, just a little less standoffish. Say what you want about Natasha, but she knows how to read a situation like a damn instruction manual.

“I’m uh…looking for someone,” he sighs. “But he probably doesn’t live around here.”

“What’s his name?”

“Steve Bar—Rogers,” Bucky says. He has to swallow Steve’s married name, because if anything, Natasha wouldn’t know him by it. “Steve Rogers.”

Natasha tilts her head to the sky, a strange look of recognition on her face. The name Steve Rogers isn’t uncommon by any means; it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch if she’d met one in her life. But she says, “Is he blond? About five-foot-four?” and Bucky’s heat leaps into his throat.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes. “Yeah, and blue eyes and he’s got a tattoo—“ he stops, because if he lets himself keep going, he won’t stop. He’ll just keep going with everything he knows about Steve, everything he’ll never forget: — _a tattoo on the side of his head, but he might have grown his hair out, I dunno—but he’s got the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a guy, and when he’s tired he sometimes only blinks with one eye and when he smiles—when he smiles, it feels like everything’s gonna be alright…_

“This might sound weird,” Natasha says, and when someone like Natasha prefaces a statement with something like that, it probably will be, “but I got married about eight years ago, and the artist we hired to do our wedding portrait was named Steve Rogers. He’s got a shield tattooed on his head, right?”

“Yeah.”

( _“You let your hair grow out.”_

 _“Yeah. Ten_ years _ago…”_ )

As of eight years ago, Steve’s hair wasn’t grown out. Bucky isn’t sure what to make of that.

“Do you, uh…” Bucky bows his head, scuffs his toe along the ground. “You wouldn’t happen to have any contact information, would you?”

“Sorry,” Natasha says. “No. It was a long time ago.”

Bucky nods, trying hard not to be disappointed. It was a long shot, anyway. He backs up towards his car, shoves his hands in his pockets. “Well, uh, thanks anyway. Merry…Merry Christmas.”

Natasha gives him this long, considering look that he stands still for out of reflex. The two months he spent working with her as his boss engrained certain muscle memory into him, and one of the first lessons he learned was _don’t try to walk away if Natasha is giving you one of those looks_.

Eventually, she says, “Merry Christmas, James,” and walks back into her house. Bucky thinks he might hear Kate’s giggle when the door opens, but he’ll never be sure. He’ll never be sure if it was Kate’s giggle he heard, floating out the door as he got in his car, or if it was a ghost of what could have been—a little black-haired girl giggling and running around in the yard across the street, chasing a golden retriever.  


His phone rings three times on his way back into the city before he picks it up. “Hello?”

“James!” It’s Sharon, and she sounds panicked, which is something that it’s hard for Sharon to get. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling you for half an hour. I even called your doorman, but he said you left your apartment two hours ago. Why haven’t you been picking up your phone?”

“Sorry,” he says, fully aware that _I’m James Barnes and I can do what I want_ is an explanation he could, logically, give; and more than that, one that he’s given before. Right now, it sounds cheap and mean. “I was…I had something I needed to do. What’s the matter? Why do you sound like the Dow just dropped 600 points?”

“Something’s gone down with the merger on S.H.I.E.L.D.’s end,” she says, and it sounds like she’s whispering into the phone, like she’s in a corner facing away from everyone else so they don’t see what a panicked expression she has on her face. None of this is good news. “I can’t explain right now, but you need to be here ten minutes ago, James, I’m _serious_ —Stark’s about to have an _aneurysm_.”

As if on cue, Howard’s voice in the background bellows, “Where the _fuck_ is Barnes?”

“Why are you even there?” Bucky asks, “I thought I gave you the day off.” It’s hard to remember a day that was two months ago for himself and only yesterday for everyone else, but he’s almost sure that he gave Sharon the day off, because he wouldn’t need her, because he’d be in—“What about Portland? When’s my flight?”

“It’s not until two,” Sharon says, “and _I’m_ here because they called me when they couldn’t get ahold of you. I came in because Howard’s _manic_ —“

“Alright, alright, I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He turns off the George Washington Bridge in the direction of the StarkTech building. “Just—hold everything together until I get there, okay? Can you do that?”

“ _Hurry_ ,” Sharon hisses before disconnecting.

His parking spot at the StarkTech building is the same as ever, reads _James B. Barnes—President, StarkTech_. He remembers the sign on his door at Hawk’s Eye Sporting Goods, _Bucky Barnes: general manager_ , sharpie on computer paper. He pines for it.

Upstairs, the entire department is in uproar. Phones are ringing in a chaotic harmony, numerous panicked secretaries almost slam into him on his way through the bullpen to the main boardroom, only stopping to distractedly mumble, “Sorry, Mister Barnes—“ before continuing with their precious cargo of paper stacks and manila envelopes and file folders clutched to their chests. He rotates several times, frowning and trying to get a feel for what’s happening. So far, all he’s getting is a very distinct sensation of _catastrophic meltdown_.

Ground Zero is obviously the boardroom. Everyone is on a phone, if not talking into it then typing on it frantically or scrolling with the kind of fervency usually reserved for sports with the world ‘extreme’ in the title. He’s standing there for nearly four minutes before someone notices, although he thinks it has more to do with his current choice in wardrobe; he never wears jeans except at home. The only reason he’s wearing them now is because they were the first thing he set hands on, still draped over a chair in his bedroom from one lazy night a week ago (Nine weeks ago?).

“What are you wearing?” Sharon demands, because she’s the first one to take notice of him. Bucky wonders if she’s ever seen him out of a suit, and can’t think of an occasion when she would have.

“Is that really the biggest issue right now?” he asks, donning somewhat unconsciously his distinct man-in-charge voice. To his own ears it sounds rusty, but if Sharon notices, she doesn’t make it obvious. She sighs, running a hand through her messy hair. She, herself, looks crooked with her pink blouse sitting strangely on her shoulders, like she put it on in the dark. Her hair shows evidence of being mused repeatedly. Bucky says, “Someone tell me what the deal is with S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Well that’s the _thing_ ,” Sharon mutters, grimacing profoundly, “we just don’t _know_. Someone within S.H.I.E.L.D. called this morning and told us to keep hold of our asses because Phil Coulson’s been in secret negotiations for weeks with some Japanese tech company. We don’t know which one, but apparently they’re offering him some deal that involves letting him keep majority shares of S.H.I.E.L.D. and coming on as a member of their board of directors…we just don’t know. Our shareholders are having conniptions, James. I don’t need to tell you how _bad_ it’s going to be if we lose S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“I don’t think you need to tell anyone that, Sharon,” Bucky sighs, leaning against the back of his usual chair—head of the table, place of honor. Sharon stands next to him, one thumb hooked into the waistband of her grey slacks and the other leaning heavily on the mahogany conference table. Bucky bows his head, closes his eyes, thinks.

“What’re we gonna do, James?” Sharon mutters, manicured nails now tapping restlessly on the table’s shined surface. She doesn’t give him a minute to answer before again hissing, “James?”

“Just…just gimme a…” Bucky groans deep in his chest, turns around to lean his hips back against the chair and stare at the wall. He crosses one arm over his chest, runs the other through his hair, sighs, “Alright, this is what we’re gonna do. You and everyone in this room are gonna go on a fuckin’ manhunt for this Japanese company. Meanwhile, I’m gonna go home, get myself cleaned up…and then get on a flight to Portland, where I’ll drink eggnog with Phil Coulson and convince him that the Japanese company is the devil and StarkTech is the answer to all his prayers.” He pushes himself away from the table, nods to himself. “Then, while Phil Coulson is having Christmas dinner with his family, I’m going to go back to my hotel and eat Chinese carryout…alone…on Christmas Day. Because this is my life. And there’s nothing that can change that.”

Sharon eyes him warily. “James, are you…?”

“Don’t get all sentimental on me now, Sharon,” Bucky sighs. “I don’t think I could handle it. Just make sure that the shit doesn’t hit the fan any more than it already has.” He pats her shoulder and slouches out of the conference room, to the confused stares of his underlings.  


It’s back in his apartment, just before he leaves to get in the town car that’s waiting for him downstairs that he realizes he has a voice message. He doesn’t know how long it’s been there, because he tends to ignore things like voice messages on his personal phone—if it’s important, people usually call his office phone so that they’ll get Sharon and leave a message with her. He cannot for the life of him remember the details of yesterday (two months ago?) clearly enough to recall if he let a phone call go to voice mail.

The little notification refuses to disappear until he checks his voicemail, and it bothers him enough that he calls it. It dials—and Bucky will never understand why the phone has to _dial_ an internal system—before that ubiquitous cool, computerized voice picks up with, “ _You have…one…unheard message._ ”

He waits, tapping his fingers impatiently as it recites the number the message was from—the area code is local, but the rest of it doesn’t mean anything to him, and plenty of wrong numbers come from local numbers when you live in a place as massive as New York. For awhile back in ’08, he kept getting calls from people looking for a heating and cooling company. Possibly the result of a misprinted billboard or business card. He wonders if this is a sudden resurgence of that ridiculousness.

Finally, the message plays. It’s several seconds of silence, then, “ _Hi, Bucky_ ,” and Bucky’s heart stops for a second, because that’s Steve’s voice. That’s unmistakably Steve, coming tinny and thin over the phone line but undoubtedly _Steve_. Bucky almost misses what he says next because his heart is pounding so loudly in his ears.

“ _Um, I’m sorry if this is too early to call, but I…uh, sorry for calling, but I still had your number in my phone, which I know is weird, but I figured I’d try it. Turns out you have the same cell phone number as you did in college. Um, anyway, I have…a box? Of your things? This is Steve Rogers, by the way—wow, I should have mentioned that before. This is Steve Rogers, and I’ve been cleaning out my house and I’ve found some of your things. I was wondering if you wanted to come get them? I’m free today and, uh, until six or so tomorrow, so…if you wanted to come by and get this stuff, call me back. My number is…” He recites it, fast-paced as if he’s worried the message will cut off before he gets it all out. “Call anytime after eight, that’s when I get home from work. Uh, bye_.”

“ _End of messages. To delete message, press 7. To repeat, press 8. To save, press 9. For other options, press…_ ”

Bucky’s thumb hovers over _7_ for a moment, and then _9_ , and then eventually he exits out of voicemail, scrolls through his missed calls and redials Steve’s number—a call that was apparently placed around eight AM on Christmas Eve; yesterday.

The phone only rings one and a half times before it’s picked up, and Steve’s deep voice says, “Hello?”

“Steve, hi,” Bucky says, “It’s James.”

“James…? Oh, oh! Bucky, I’m sorry. Right, James. Er, Bucky? Which one do you go by nowadays?”

“Bucky is fine,” he assures. “Sorry, I’ve just…gotten used to introducing myself as James.”

“Right, no, yeah, I understand.” There’s some shuffling on the other end of the line, like Steve’s walking around while he talks. “I assume you’re calling about my message.”

“Yeah. I, uh…yeah.”

“Okay, well…I have a box of your stuff, like I said. It’s…it’s not a lot, just some books and a few…trinkets, you know. So, uh, if you want it, I can mail it to you? Or you can just come by and pick them up, either way is fine with me. I mean, I know it’s stuff you’ve survived fifteen years without, but just in case any of it turns out to have any kind of…significance for you.” The shuffling stops abruptly, and Bucky can just picture Steve standing with a hand on his waist, waiting in silence for an answer.

“Uh…I could come by and get it. If that’s alright with you.”

“Sure,” Steve says, automatically. Bucky doesn’t think the word _eagerly_ , because that’s not what he is, except maybe eager to get Bucky’s things out of his home. “Do you have something to write down the address?”

Bucky rummages around in his pockets, finds a business card and a pen with the StarkTech logo on it. He says, “Yeah,” and writes down the address that Steve gives him.

It’s in Brooklyn; Brooklyn Heights, to be exact. Which certainly isn’t Vinegar Hill, where Bucky grew up, and certainly isn’t DUMBO, where Steve grew up (Then again, gentrification made it so that the DUMBO and Vinegar Hill of their childhoods don’t really exist anymore) but something in Bucky is glad that Steve is where he belongs, that he still went home to start his life.

The address is that of a brownstone with a grand stoop and a moving van parked in front of it. It takes Bucky over an hour to get there with the gridlock on the island. He wastes no time getting out of the car and scaling the steps. The front door is popped open and there is a general commotion going on inside; several people talking all at once, a man’s voice raised above the others. It’s not Steve’s voice, but it’s strangely familiar all the same.

He knocks on the screen. “Hello?”

The person who opens the door for him is the last person he would have ever expected. Sam, with a cell phone clutched in his hand, appears on the other side of the door. Bucky’s mouth falls open as Sam asks, “You from the shipping company?”

“You—I—what the fuck?” he demands, mouth working furiously to catch up with his brain, the influx of pure _emotion_ he’s experiencing, ninety percent of which is confusion and the other ten percent unadulterated rage.

“You’re gonna have to be a little more articulate there, my friend,” Sam says, one eyebrow quirked. He hasn’t moved to let Bucky in the house. They’re just standing there on either side of the screen door. Bucky glaring daggers, Sam giving this look like butter wouldn’t melt in his damn mouth, and Bucky wants to cry, wants to scream, wants to haul back and punch his fist right through the screen and into Sam’s face. He doesn’t do any of these things.

“Haven’t you,” Bucky growls, voice low and broken and all the things he doesn’t want to sound right now, that betray every shred of emotion he’s trying so desperately not to feel, “ _fucked_ up my life enough already?”

Sam clears his throat. “I dunno what you’re talking about.”

“Like _fuck_ —“

“Are you here to see Steve?” Sam asks, and now his hand does move to the door handle. “Is that why you’re here?”

“Fuck yes, that’s why I’m here. He’s all I’ve thought about since I fucking woke up this morning. I feel like I’m going to die if I don’t see him again, I feel like everything good in my life has been fucking _ripped from me with a pair of pliers._ Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“All I needed to hear was _yes_ ,” Sam says, and finally opens the screen door. Bucky steps in, stands toe-to-toe with Sam and sizes him up. Sam is just slightly taller than him and probably about the same age—is that a thing Sam _does_? Age? Bucky gets the distinct impression that the man before him is something slightly more than human—but there’s something kind about him, something earnest that Bucky didn’t notice before. Sam asks, “We gonna have a problem?” and Bucky sighs, looks away because _no, no they’re not_.

“I just wanna see Steve,” he mumbles. “Please.”

“S’fine. I’m not gonna keep you from him. That’s not my job.” He cranes his neck around, shouts over his shoulder. “Steve! Some guy here to see you.”

It takes a moment, but the sound of footfalls thudding down the stairs comes closer and then stops, and Steve Rogers appears in all his glory. He’s barefoot—Bucky always loved him barefoot; it made him seem soft, revealed his delicate ankles—and wearing a pair of jeans, far more stylish than anything Bucky ever saw him wear before. The black turtleneck he’s wearing clings to his figure beautifully. He looks exactly the same as Bucky remembers—only difference is his hair, which is undercut on both sides and gelled up. With the thick-framed glasses he’s wearing, he really does look all of twenty-five. But then, Steve’s always looked young for his age.

He stops on the bottom step of the stairs, one arm wrapped around the banister. He blinks twice, clears his throat. “Bucky. Hi.” He glances at Sam. “Hey, did you call the airline?”

“Just about to,” Sam says, brandishing his phone in evidence. He glances between the two of them, quirks his lips and backs out of the room. If there was any doubt that this is Sam and not just someone who looks miraculously like the guy (supernatural being? Wizard?) who recently ruined Bucky’s life, it’s gone.

“How do you know that guy?” Bucky mutters, hands shoved petulantly in his jean pockets.

“He’s my old roommate,” Steve says, sweeping his bangs out of his eyes. It falls right back, and Bucky kind of wants to push it back again for him. Holds off for obvious reasons. “Sam Wilson, he’s my assistant now. Do you know him? I’m not sure you ever met him when we were…” he stops, clears his throat and shrugs with an almost apologetic smile. He says, “It’s…been a long time.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “You…you look great.”

Steve smiles, and Bucky thinks the faintest patches of red rise on the apples of his cheeks, but he might be mistaken. He says, “It’s good to see you,” carefully, and it’s obviously because he can’t return Bucky’s sentiment; Bucky looks like shit right now. Steve adds, “Uh, come on in. Don’t be a stranger.” Even though that’s what Bucky essentially is.

He follows Steve into the house, Steve muttering, “Now where’d I put it…” as they go. He follows Steve through a dining room—a square dining table with four chairs pushed against one wall to make a straight path. There are boxes in small piles against walls and on most surfaces.

“So…what’s going on?” Bucky mumbles, though he knows it’s not his place to ask. On the other side of the dining room is a living room, with all of the furniture pushed against walls to make room for the boxes that are in here, as well. “You moving?”

“Um…kind of,” Steve mumbles, distracted with picking up boxes, glancing at their labels and settling them back down again. “I’m going to Paris for six months. It’s for a, uh, consultation with some restorers at the Louvre. One second, sorry—it was right here…” He goes to the doorway, leans around it. “Sam! Have you seen a box with ‘Bucky’ on it? I put it in the pile for the Salvation Army but it’s not there anymore.”

“Paris?” Bucky mumbles, numbly.

“I’ve only got so many hands, Steve, I can’t do everything at once,” Sam says, as he comes around the corner. He has his phone pressed to his ear, and when he gets close enough, Bucky can hear tinny wait music coming through. “And you need to slow down. Relax, man, don’t get yourself worked up over every little thing.”

Steve glances at him, rolls his eyes. “I’m not getting myself worked up, I just need to find the box so I’m not wasting more of anyone else’s time.” He glances at Bucky, gives an apologetic grimace. “Also, I’m allowed to be a _little_ worked up when I need to be in Paris by tomorrow morning and my flight was cancelled.” He looks like he’s about to say more, but a brisk rapping sounds from down the hall, and he sighs. “That’s probably Peggy. One second. Sorry, Buck, but you picked the worst time to show up.” His tone isn’t nearly as disgruntled as his words—with the way that Steve glances at him, Bucky has almost convinced himself that Steve is even halfway as glad to see him as he’s glad to see Steve.

All the same, Bucky says, “Sorry,” as he follows Steve back round to the front door, like some kind of lost duckling.

Steve opens the door to reveal that it is indeed Peggy Carter. Exactly the same as Bucky remembers her from his weeks of life that never happened. She greets Steve, smiles and hugs him. When she catches sight of Bucky, she stops and stares with something that might be shock, or might be confusion. She says, “Bucky?”

“Hi, Peggy,” he says. Holds out his hand. Her shake is a firm as ever. “It’s been awhile.”

“It, erm, yes,” Peggy says. “It has.” She shoots a glance at Steve that she doesn’t even try to hide from Bucky—a frown, a furrow of the brows, a tilt of the head.

Steve makes some vague placating gesture, turns around and climbs half the steps. He cranes his head up, looking into the upper level and calls, “America! Aunt Peggy’s here.”

Bucky freezes, barely daring to breathe, heart barely daring to _beat_ as he listens to the pounding of little feet above his head. He’s rooted to the spot as America—his beautiful, sweet America who he was so afraid he’d never see again—comes hoping down the stairs wrapped in a coat with a backpack on her back. Her black hair sways around her shoulders, a similar length to what it was when he last saw her, when he kissed her goodnight and hoped, prayed that she hadn’t gone unfound in a dumpster as an infant.

She meets his eyes as she comes down the stairs, and doesn’t look away as a lot of children would. She stands there, three steps up, brows furrowed but expression open. Bucky wants to touch her, wants to bring her into a tight hug, wants to smooth down her hair and reaffirm that she is real.

Steve catches the look that they exchange, says, “This is America, my daughter. Um, America, this is Bucky Barnes. He’s a friend of mine from before you were born.” America descends the rest of the stairs, and Steve rests his hands on her shoulders.

America eyes Bucky for a few seconds more, then slowly reaches out a hand. Bucky, unsure of what else to do, takes it. It’s not so much a shake as a wiggle, because she’s five and her motor functions aren’t that great yet and this is probably the first handshake she’s ever participated in, but Bucky’s heart is still warmed. She says, “Nice to meet you.”

“It’s very nice to meet you too,” Bucky says earnestly. There’s too much emotion in his voice for such a simple greeting, and Steve seems to pick up on it, but it doesn’t seem to disconcert him. He nudges America towards Peggy, ducks his head to catch Bucky’s eyes and give him a soft smile.

“Alright,” Steve says, and kneels in front of America like Bucky has seen him do so many times. He straightens her backpack on her shoulders, smoothes down her hair and says, “Be good for Aunt Peggy. I’ll be back on New Years’ day and I’ll tell you all about our new house, okay? I love you. Can I have a kiss?” America kisses him. “Thank you. And a hug?” America steps forward and throws her arms around Steve’s neck. Steve squeezes her, pats her back. “Thank you.”

America pulls away and goes to Peggy, who picks her up under the armpits, says, “Hello, my love,” and kisses her on the cheek. Peggy spends another moment communicating with Steve via only their eyes—it’s a talent Bucky noticed before, in that other life, which only seems amplified all the more now. When the conversation comes to its assumed end, Peggy says, “Take care of yourself, Steve,” and glances at Bucky. Nods stiffly, a simple acknowledgement more than anything, and leaves.

“You have a daughter,” Bucky says, because it feels like that’s what he should say. He’s genuinely surprised that America is Steve’s daughter in this life as well, although he knows he shouldn’t be.

“Yeah,” Steve says, watching out the screen door as Peggy puts America in the backseat of her car. “America. She’s five.” He glances at Bucky, rubs the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, this has gotta be weird for you. I didn’t mean for—“

“No, it’s fine,” Bucky mumbles. He glances at Steve’s left hand, because he can’t help himself and because it’s right there in his face, resting on Steve’s neck. There aren’t any rings there, no engagement ring with a tiny diamond and no gold wedding band. Bucky asks, “You’re not married, are you?”

Steve shakes his head. “No. I, uh, never got married, Buck. You?” He walks away again, this time stopping in the dining room and rifling through some of the boxes there.

“Not exactly,” Bucky mutters. He watches Steve, the furrow of his brows and the line of his spine and the way he’s up on his toes to reach boxes that are set further back. He says, “Would you have time for a cup of coffee?” before he can stop himself, because he can’t let Steve slip through his fingers, not again, and he has this idea in his head that if he just got him alone for a moment, talked to him, Steve might be more amiable to giving him a second chance—

“Yes,” Steve says, and before Bucky has time to register any kind of gratitude or happiness, he continues, “Here it is; I found it,” and pulls a small box from the pile. It does, indeed, have ‘BUCKY’ written on it in thick black marker. He holds it out to Bucky with a smile, says, “Here you go. It’s just a bunch of knickknacks that I must have been carting around with me for years, but they all belong to you. I figured that moving to a different country is as good a reason as any to give them back.”

“Paris, right?” Bucky mumbles, taking the box. “Paris, France?”

“That’s the one,” Steve chuckles. “I’m going to be part of a team of restorers doing some exhibit work over the winter and spring.”

“So it’s not permanent?” Bucky asks, hating the tone of hope in his voice. This is Steve’s life, he has absolutely no say in it; lost that privilege when he went to Germany fifteen years ago and never came back. But he can’t help but hope that maybe, even after so long, there’s still something there that can be salvaged. That Steve’s feelings run just as deep, and all they need is a nudge.

“It has the potential to be if they like my work,” Steve says, shrugging as though nonchalant, but Bucky knows his tells by now. Knows the nervous curl to his lip, knows the eyes that are just a little too wide. This is an opportunity for Steve. An important one. “I’m not sure moving to Paris permanently would be what’s best for America though, you know? She’s so young, and the culture shock might be just a little too much for her at this age.”

“She’ll adjust,” Bucky says despite himself, because he knows she would. America could take to any situation like a fish to water. To cover it up, because Steve is giving him an odd look, he switches direction. He says, “So you’re a restorer,” and settles the box more comfortably in his arms. It’s closed with duct tape; he can’t tell what’s inside it.

“Yup,” Steve says, and there’s a proud smile to his face now. “I got my Master’s in Art History and then had an apprenticeship at the Met. I specialize in Renaissance-period restoration.”

“That’s great. You don’t do commissions anymore?”

Steve barks out a laugh, shakes his head. “God, no. I don’t need to with how much I’m paid per contract. It’s way less time-consuming, too.”

“Yeah, you work all the time,” Bucky says, without really meaning to. He adds, “I mean, you used to,” to save. Then he asks, “Do you…still sketch?” because for some reason, it’s important to him.

Steve seems to understand this without it being explicitly vocalized. He smiles, nods. “Yeah, Buck. All the time.”

They stand there, Steve with his gentle smile and Bucky feeling lost and alone and like everything he needs is just out of his reach. It’s minutes before Sam comes back in, phone now discarded. He announces, “So, the bad news is that the Air France flight was cancelled. Good news, there’s a United flight leaving Kennedy at nine, am I good or what?”

Steve ducks his head and brings a small grin on his face, nods in Sam’s direction. “You’re good, Sam. Thanks.” To Bucky, he says, “Thanks for coming by. It…” he tilts his head to the side, and his smile fades, but his expression isn’t unfriendly, or even harder. It’s still soft, but it’s one Bucky’s never seen before. He doesn’t know what to call it. “It was really good seeing you again, Buck.”

Bucky nods and searches for something to say, some meaningless platitude like _thanks for calling_ or _nice seeing you too_. What comes out is something he didn’t even intend. When he opens he mouth, he finds himself saying, “Do you ever think about us? About…what might have happened?”

With a suddenly somber look, Steve scans his face and mumbles, “You’re serious.”

“Yeah.”

Steve clears his throat, sighs, rubs the back of his neck. It’s clear that he’s considering any number of answers, and Bucky wishes more than anything that he was privy to the goings on in that beautiful mind. What Steve eventually says is, “Tell you what…in six months, look me up. Alright? Maybe we’ll go for that cup of coffee.”

Bucky’s heart sinks to his shoes, but it isn’t anything he wasn’t expecting. He lets Steve pat his shoulder, mumbles the affirmative and follows Steve to the door. Stares at him for a moment, deeply sad on a level he can’t explain because this isn’t his Steve. This isn’t the guy he knew in college, or even in that other life. Yesterday. A million light-years away, maybe, in a different universe. They are two different people now, too many different experiences between them to bridge that gap. He clutches the box to himself and wonders how in the world he’s going to get over Steve Rogers when fifteen years didn’t do the trick.

“Bye, Steve,” he murmurs, and he almost kisses him on the cheek, but it’s only an almost. He controls himself at the last moment, turns on his heel and carries the box back to his car.

As he’s closing the trunk, Sam appears next to him. Bucky raises an eyebrow, scowls. Asks, “What do you want?”

“You really are clueless, you know that?” Sam mutters, shoving his hands into his jeans. Despite the fact that he’s outside without anything but a T-shirt and jeans on, he doesn’t even shiver. Looks as comfortable as if it was seventy degrees outside, and Bucky doesn’t know why he would have expected any different. “I give you every possible nudge that I possibly can and you? Man, you don’t even do anything with it. You just mope around like if it doesn’t fall into your lap, you don’t get it. There are some things you gotta _work_ for, Buckaroo.”

“Okay, seriously, who the fuck are you?” Bucky demands. Slams the trunk with far more force than necessary. “I’m getting tired of you popping up where you don’t belong and I’m especially tired of this _the rules say_ bullshit. Who— _what_ —are you, and why is it _my_ life you’ve decided to fuck all to hell?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “This ain’t _about_ you, man.”

“Then who’s it about?”

With a sigh, Sam leans against Bucky’s car. It’s reminiscent of their first encounter—the one where Sam planted himself on the hood and spewed all kinds of cryptic bullshit. Today, for some reason, he seems more human than Bucky remembers him being before. Bucky doesn’t know why, doesn’t really want to ask either, but listens when Sam says, “Look, there are some things I genuinely can’t tell you about who—and _what_ —I am. It’ll get more than just you and me in trouble, trust me. But what I _do_ is look out for Steve. Always have. Call it my job, I guess.” He folds his arms, eyes planted on the screen door of the house. Steve isn’t visible, but Bucky somehow has no doubt that Sam has an eye on him, even now. “Steve is special.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“No, I mean, really. Honest-to-God, on a cosmic level, special.” Sam looks to Bucky now. “That’s really all I can tell you about that, but trust me.” He looks back to the house. “You know what a fixed point is, Bucky?”

“Vaguely. It’s something you can’t tamper with unless it creates a paradox or something, right? Theoretical physics. Time-space.”

“Yeah, that’s a more science fictiony definition than I was hoping for, but…” Sam rolls his shoulders, then his head. “Let’s see…how do I put this without makin’ you think that turning right instead of left could trigger the end of the world? You getting on that plane—that’s a fixed point. No way to change it. Everything that comes after it is split two ways. Of course, that timeline that I drop kicked you into—that’s only one of many.”

“You still haven’t explained why you did that,” Bucky says, and even though he’s now more inclined to listen, less worried that Sam is going to fuck something up again, he remains at a safe distance.

“I can only be with Steve in one reality,” Sam says. “In that way, I’m fixed too. But all of you—there’s hundreds of thousands of you. Hundreds of thousands of Bucky Barneses, hundreds of thousand of Steve Rogerses. Even in the timelines where you’re a Jane Barnes or he’s a Stella Rogers, you’re still essentially the same people. You follow?”

“No.”

Sam smirks, rolls his shoulders again. “Probably best you don’t, to be honest. The point is—my job is to stick with Steve, help him become someone great—because he _is_ special. But he’s even more special when he’s with you. You’re the catalyst. Steve can’t reach his full potential without you—and you can’t reach yours without Steve. It’s a pattern that’s repeated over timeline after timeline. Steve Rogers can’t be great without Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky goes lax against the trunk of the car, slumping onto his forearms. He bows his head for a moment, struggling to process. He’d probably not be able to process it at all if the last two months, or perhaps just night, had not happened to him.

He mumbles, “What does it all mean? What, we’re soul mates or something?”

“The term ‘soul mates’ is a human invention meant to explain naturally-occurring pulls between people who are predisposed to find each other. In case you haven’t noticed, most people don’t believe in soul mates. Not a lot of people are linked like you and Steve are. So, essentially, yeah.” Sam looks over his shoulder. “If you weren’t, I wouldn’t have been able to do half the things I did. The rules are different for people like you and him. I shouldn’t have been allowed to slam dunk you into that alternate timeline without permission—A because it wasn’t really yours, and B because that’s not something that’s done much anymore, but I did. I also shouldn’t be allowed to…for lack of a better term, change your fate, but that’s what I’m about to do.”  He leans forward over the trunk of the car, grabs Bucky’s lapel and pull him closer. “You’re gonna listen very carefully right now, because I’m only going to say this once.”

Despite himself, Bucky lets himself be pulled closer—so close that he can see the lighter flecks of brown in Sam’s almost-black eyes. He nods, eager and apprehensive all at once.

“Your company is going under. That whole deal you have with Tony Stark? Time to put it in action. The deal with S.H.I.E.L.D. goes belly-up in about twelve hours and you need to jump ship. Get in touch with Tony Stark, and then get a meeting with Pepper Potts. Word has it they’re in the market for a COO.” Sam raises an eyebrow. “It’s a downgrade, for sure, but I have it from a source—a colleague of mine, we’ll call him, who’s been with Stark a _long_ time—that Stark has just as much potential as his father had before he got old and jaded. It might not be the most rewarding choice, but it’s the _right_ choice.” Sam raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes.

“After you talk to Tony Stark, there’s a flight leaving Kennedy airport at nine. Gate 4F. You cannot let Steve get on it.”

“Gate 4F. Got it.” Bucky pulls back, runs a hand through his hair. “What am I supposed to tell him?”

Sam smiles. It’s warm. “Tell him the truth."

Bucky nods, keeps nodding as he winds around his car. He pulls out his keys, fiddles with them for a moment and before Sam can go back into the house, he calls, “Sam?”

Sam turns.

"Did any of it…actually happen?"

Sam sighs, rubs the back of his neck. "Do you want the easy answer, or the truth?"

Reluctantly, Bucky says, "I'm gonna go with the truth."

"Okay." Sam comes back to him, plants his palms on the car and chooses his words for a moment. "Alright. Glimpses are…complicated. They're real but they _aren't_. I pick a timeline and I drop you into it…but I can't _actually_ drop you into that timeline, can I? Where would the other you go? It may seem like this sort of shit doesn't have rules, but it does. Strict ones. So the timeline of the glimpse is more…an impression. Remember when I said everyone was frozen?" Bucky has to think for a moment, has to wrack his brain, but he does find it eventually. Sam, sitting in the driver's seat of his Ferrari. _Everyone else is frozen, Bucky. Everyone in the world but you. You're getting a glimpse._ Bucky nods.

"I meant what I said. A glimpse is instantaneous. Nobody in this timeline moved in those two months in the other one because for them, it never happened. It only happened to you. And those two months? Were only a second in real time. Like this." He snaps his fingers. "While you were sleeping."

"So it was all in my head?"

Sam's face is soft, almost gentle when he says, "Does it really matter? Will it make what happened to you matter any less if I said _yeah, it was all technically a dream_? Do you think your life would go back to normal just because I said that the timeline you were in was just an impression of an existing one, designed to be some kind of…obstacle course of morals?"

Bucky sighs, rubs his hands down his face. "I don't know. I don't _know_."

"What do you know?"

Bucky doesn't really even think about what comes out of his mouth, to the point where even he is surprised when he says, "That I love him."

Sam nods. "Alright then."

“Does he love _me_?”

Instead of answering, Sam says, “He’s had seven different phones in the past fifteen years. Never got rid of your phone number.”

Really, somehow, that’s all the answer Bucky needs.  


Speaking with Tony Stark takes longer than Bucky would have anticipated. When he finally gets through and doesn’t hit the dead end of a recorded voice with an afterhours message, it’s to a voice he recognizes as Stark’s butler. His immediate statement is, “I understand that the situation is…precarious, Mister Barnes, but Mister Stark is—“

“Mister Stark needs to talk to me _now_ ,” Bucky snaps down the line. “Tell him it’s James Barnes, tell him the big one’s about to hit, tell him…” he pauses for a moment, because Sam’s words from earlier are floating back to him in that strange way that all of Sam’s words seem to eventually. _A colleague of mine, we’ll call him, who’s been with Stark a long time_.

Slowly, he says, “Sam sent me,” and there’s a long silence from the other end of the line.

“I’ll get Mister Stark,” Jarvis says.

Tony Stark is skeptical. Bucky spends thirty minutes trying to convince him that he knows what’s going to happen with StarkTech before the speculators even do, and even then he’s unsure.

“Speculators are like rats, buddy,” Stark says. “They’re vermin—nobody’s gonna argue that—but they’re smarter than people give them credit for, and they’re usually the first to know when everything is about to capsize. When they start jumping ship, it’s time to put on a life preserver.”

“Then help me build a fucking raft, Stark,” Bucky hisses, “because this ship is going belly-up.”

Somehow, even though they’ve met a total of once in Tony’s life, Bucky gets himself invited to Christmas dinner at the newly-finished Stark Tower. He tries to deflect, tries to imply that he has other places to be, but it’s the only way Tony will listen to him. So he goes. Halfway through dinner, Sharon calls because she somehow found out that he wasn’t on his two PM flight. He tells her he’ll take care of it, not to worry about it, to relax for a few minutes. Part of him feels bad because this might be the last few days she has a job.

The rest of him has bigger things to worry about.

He locks himself in an opulent bathroom for fifteen minutes to rebook a flight. Not that he’ll get on it, but he doesn’t like the idea of the romcom mad dash—especially since customs is hard to get through on any normal day, let alone on a high-profile national holiday. One that any potential terrorist would love to make a point on.

He finds Steve’s flight and gets a seat on it. A nine hour nonstop redeye to Paris. He wonders if getting on the flight if Steve refuses to keep off it will do the trick. He wonders how to convince Steve that his future depends on not getting on that flight—at giving Bucky a second chance—in a way that will not convince him that Bucky is unhinged or desperate. Then he stops wondering because, truth be told, he is desperate and for once in his life he’s not afraid to come across as such.

The sun has set by the time he emerges. Pepper Potts finds him in one of the hallways, beautiful in a simple red tea-length dress with a Queen Anne neckline and paneled skirt. Bucky wonders why she’s all dressed up with nowhere to go, why the only people here on this day are himself and the two inhabitants of the apartment, plus their butler. They stand next to each other, staring out a huge panel of windows displaying Manhattan’s lights, for minutes before he asks.

“We could have gone to a party,” Pepper says, “or had one ourselves. But it would turn into a business function. Because they always do.” She glances at him. “On Christmas, we’re together. I don’t ask a lot of Tony, because he’s not good with that kind of thing, but that was my condition. He’s always respected it.” She looks back out the window. “It might not be a fairy tale or the American Dream, but it’s what we have. It’s ours.”

Bucky nods, stares out at greater New York thoughtfully. Softly, he says, “My longest relationship was in college. We dated for four years, then broke up because I went overseas. Wasn’t his fault, though. I never met anyone like him again.” He steps closer to the window, rests his head against it. It’s cold but in a soothing way. “He’s getting on a plane to Paris tonight. Someone told me to stop him, but I don’t know how. I don’t think I can. I don’t think I can fuck his life up like that.”

At that point he realizes that he’s spilling his guts to a woman he wants to consider him for not only a job, but a live-in executive position. A woman with whom, to her knowledge, this is his first conversation. He pulls away from the window, says, “Sorry. Dunno where that came from.”

“Sometimes when you need to talk, a stranger is better than a close friend,” Pepper says. “That’s why therapists are so popular.” She offers him a small smile, pats his arm. “I’d love to invite you onto our board, James.”

“Bucky,” he says. “Call me Bucky.”

She purses her lips to hide a smile, nods and then lets it through. Someone like her obviously thinks it rude to laugh at someone’s name, but her smile is beautiful and Bucky somehow knows she’s not laughing _at_ him, so he doesn’t call her out on it. She says, “Alright, Bucky. I know that you and Tony probably have more to talk about, but that can wait.” She glances over his shoulder, and he’s not sure at what until she says, “It’s almost seven o’clock now. What time is your flight?”

“Nine,” Bucky says, even though he can’t remember having told her that he was, ostensibly, to catch a flight tonight.

She says, “Well, you should go catch it,” and raises her eyebrows. It clicks into place in his head.

He nods, once slowly and then several times very quickly, starting his way out of the room. “Yeah. Thank you. Thank so much, I’ll…I’ll be in touch.” He doesn’t wait to hear if she has a response to that, but he thinks he hears the faintest shadow of a laugh like raindrops follow him down the hall.  


He stops in at his apartment, because he figures having luggage is a good idea if he does indeed end up going to Paris tonight. He’s not sure what he’s going to do when Howard finds out, either by himself or word of mouth, that he never got to Portland. Hopefully, by that point, Howard will have bigger issues—and Bucky will be cleaning out his office.

Before he leaves, he takes a moment to open the box Steve gave him. On top is a windbreaker Bucky vaguely remembers owning back in college. It’s still got a _Gore for President_ button stuck to it, and he rolls his eyes at himself. He thinks he remembers Steve borrowing his jacket from him and never giving it back. It would have been huge on him, but he liked that kind of shit, and Bucky liked the way he wore it; sleeves rolled to the elbow and unzipped, flapping halfway down his thighs. He sets it aside before he gets too lost in memory.

It all follows a theme. There is also an old T shirt of his in there, a framed picture of Bucky’s mother that he can’t believe he hadn’t missed all these years. He sets it on his nightstand without really thinking about it, unable to put it back in the box without feeling guilt. There are concert ticket stubs and half a bottle of Southern Comfort that he knows belongs to him because Steve got sick on the stuff once and never touched it afterwards. At the very bottom is a copy of _The Wizard of Oz_. The cover is coming off the binding.

Bucky piles it all carefully back into the box and closes it again, deposits the box in a shelf in his closet. As he does so, another box almost hits him in the head. He curses and bends down to pick it up. This one, in some odd twist of fate, is labeled ‘STEVE’S SHIT’ in angry, dashing letters. He vaguely remembers this box, the angry mindset he was in as he packed it up right after that last phone call with Steve from Germany, the one during which they broke it off.

This one has less in it. He’s surprised he’s carried it with him through the half a dozen moves he’s made since returning from Germany, but then Steve also carried his box of forgotten memories with him. He wonders if it’s just one of those things. When you’re moving, a box is a box is a box, and by the time you realize it wasn’t something you meant to bring with you, you’ve already shoved it in a corner and told yourself you’ll get rid of it eventually. Of course, as so often happens, eventually never comes.

As he picks the box up, something falls out of it. It’s small and silver. Bucky thinks it’s a necklace at first, but when he gets closer, he realizes what it is. A compass.

It still has a picture of him and Steve in it. Laying in bed, Steve’s head on his chest, hair all flopped to the side to reveal his tattoo. He still doesn’t know who took the picture, still doesn’t know where they even _are_ , and it still doesn’t matter. He closes it and shoves the compass in his pocket as he runs out the door.

The airport is surprisingly crowded for Christmas Day, although he guesses he shouldn’t be shocked. Plenty of people have work tomorrow; it’s a sad but true element of life, but not one he particularly has time for the result of. He throws himself into the crowd, gets himself a front spot in the United check point by waving two hundreds in the face of the woman standing there. She has two disgruntled-looking children with her, and she glances at them before taking the money and stepping back to allow him to cut in front of her. Nobody else in the line seems to notice.

The attendant is far too cheery for someone working on Christmas Day at nine PM.

“Good evening, sir,” she chirps, “may I have your ticket information and your passport?”

He shoves his phone and his passport towards her. She takes a ridiculously long time to check him in, hunting and pecking on the keyboard and glancing back and forth between his passport and the screen as though to make sure it’s _really_ him. Then she smiles at him again, slides everything back to him. “Do you have any bags to check, Mister Barnes?”

“No,” he says. He knows he’s acting strange, knows that anyone standing in this airport would probably be rightfully wary of him with the shifty way he’s behaving, but the attendant doesn’t seem to notice or care. She turns back to the computer, taps again. Bucky starts shifting persistently, restlessly. It’s 8:39.

“Could we hurry this up?” he asks. “The flight boards at nine—“

“One more moment, sir,” she says, flashing another pleasant smile. Like a pod person or something. Maybe she is one. Bucky’s been through enough weird shit lately that he’s not going to rule it out.

Eventually, finally, she hands him a boarding pass (“Enjoy your flight!”) and he books it towards TSA. They eye him warily as he approaches, possibly because he _is_ running, and stands still for a more than thorough pat-down from a man who glares at him the entire time, even as he’s kneeling in front of him to check his shoes. Bucky drags both hands down his face and resists the urge to say _I don’t have a bomb_ because that sounds like something someone with a bomb would say.

They let him through. It’s 8:52. Gate 4F is two automatic walkways and a jog across the entirety of Concourse F away. The entire time, crowds of people embroiled in post-9/11 society watch him and hold their breaths and wait for him to pass, and he does without addressing them. They don’t need to know that he’s not the man on the fucking wing; he’s the guy at the end of the movie, running through the airport desperately, reaching, hoping, praying.

It’s the end of the line, and Bucky’s gonna be there.

When he gets there, gate 4F Is packed and he doesn’t see Steve. It would be hard to see him anyway, with a head that barely raises above most people’s shoulders, but in a crowd like this—he’s almost invisible. He shoulders past a pair of women conversing in heated French, past an old man with an animal carrier that a lot of unhappy yowling is centering from, past a kid sitting in the middle of the floor playing some handheld gaming system and still doesn’t see Steve, doesn’t see that distinctive head of blond hair—

Then he does.

Steve stands in line to board, a satchel across his body and his boarding pass in his left hand. He isn’t looking up; his phone is in his right hand, thumb moving rapidly over the screen. His coat—a knee-length navy blue number—is undone and just barely clinging to his shoulders. He looks like he’s been waiting for awhile, and he’s at the back of the line, and Bucky would feel bad about what he’s about to do if he didn’t know it was the right thing; if he didn’t know that his—both of their—futures were on the line and there was no room for failure.

Or perhaps there is. Perhaps the universe will split again, and Bucky will find himself in the one where Steve gets on the plane. He hesitates, because from what Sam said that’s a very real possibility.

He doesn’t dwell on it for long. Bucky Barnes doesn’t dwell, and this is a risk he’s got to take.

“Steve,” he says, not loud enough to draw attention to him, not a grand display. It’s said simply; _Steve_ , like he’s been here the whole time and he’s just trying to get his attention.

Steve turns around. Immediately, his face goes through a myriad of emotions; shock, confusion, disbelief, incredulity. He says, “Bucky?” and narrows his eyes, tilts his head like he’s not sure what he’s seeing. “What…are you doing here?”

“Don’t get on that plane,” Bucky says rather than answering. He hasn’t taken a single step closer to Steve and his tone hasn’t changed from soft, casual, _nice weather we’re having today_ , but he begs with his eyes, reaches out with his soul to whatever might be listening in Steve.

Steve closes his eyes, exhales like he cannot _believe_ this is happening. “Buck…”

“Please,” Bucky says, and takes one step. In a whisper, he repeats, “Don’t get on that plane,” and now his desperation sinks into his voice, and now he almost reaches out but keeps himself from it. He tilts his head to catch Steve’s eyes. “You can go to Paris any other day, just not tonight. Please. Let’s have coffee. Let’s…let’s talk. Please, Steve, that’s all I ask.”

“Bucky…” Steve tucks his phone into his pocket so that he scrunch his brow with one hand, eyes squeezed closed. His hair is falling into his face and his face is just barely dusted with rose-red and he’s beautiful, but Bucky knows that saying that would make him look like the lunatic he’s behaving as, and he doesn’t want to give Steve another reason to invalidate him because, at the moment, Bucky probably wouldn’t want to listen to himself either.

“I don’t know how to explain it to you, but if you get on that plane, it’s…we’ll both…”

“Is this about closure?” Steve asks, dropping his hand and opening his eyes. The thick frames of his glasses only make them look bigger than they already are. “Are you…asking if everything is alright? Because it is, Bucky. I forgive you. I’m fine, everything’s fine.”

“Is it?” Bucky asks doubtfully. Because he wasn’t the same person after Steve Rogers and he likes to think that maybe, just maybe, Steve Rogers wasn’t the same person after Bucky Barnes.

Steve opens his mouth almost immediately, but closes it again. He looks down, rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “It wasn’t for a long time. You broke my heart. If you want me to tell that everything that happened was okay, I can’t. Because it wasn’t. I…hated you. For a long time. Because I still _loved_ you for a long time.” He looks up, closes his eyes like he can’t bear looking into Bucky’s, bites his lip. “Sometimes I think I still do. Sometimes I think you were it for me, because I haven’t had a partner in fifteen years that I didn’t compare to _you_ and that’s not fair to anyone, least of all myself, and it’s probably not healthy, but that’s the way it is.”

“I know the feeling,” Bucky says. He doesn’t even ignore the butterflies in his stomach, the tingle at the end of his fingers and toes. “I…forced myself not to think about you, y’know? But then…I started thinking about you all the time. And now I can’t stop.”

With grand inhale, Steve straightens up, glances at the line that has moved on without him. There’s a frantic tone to his voice when he says, “I can’t, Bucky. Not again. We’ve changed, and I can’t…do that to myself again.” He wraps his hand around the strap of his satchel, shakes his head wildly for a moment. “I have to go, I’m sorry. I’m…I really am sorry.”

He turns around and catches up with the line, and Bucky watches him go as the butterflies die and the tingles turn into numbness, as his belly fills with lead and drops to his toes. He stares at the back of Steve’s head and almost lets him go, almost thinks it’s over, but…

“We have a house in Jersey,” he says, loud enough to be heard by Steve and, consequently, everyone within a twenty-foot radius, but he doesn’t care. He’s past humiliation.

Steve turns around and he looks almost _scared_ , but that’s okay, because Bucky is too. He says, “Don’t do this, Buck…” but Bucky plows on with abandon.

“When you found America,” Bucky says, “she was ours right away; you said I held her like I’d never let go. We moved to Jersey because our friends needed us and because our baby needed something stable. She’s smart, Steve, and just like you.” He fists away the tears in his eyes. “Peter came later and he’s…he’s too young really, to say much, but he’s got these eyes…he’s always watching, and God, Steve, he looks just like me, and someday…he’ll be someone great. They both will, I just know it.”

Inch by inch, Steve is coming closer. Bucky gets quieter as he nears but everyone around him is listening now, tuning into this fairytale that he’s spinning from a memory.

“The house is a mess,” he says, “and we keep saying we’ll clean it up, but we never do. We’ve got a dog—Liberty. A golden retriever, and she’s gentle and playful and you make me walk her and you call her the kids’ dog but the way you spoil her…everyone knows she’s yours.” Steve is close enough now that Bucky can see the tears in his eyes, too. He wants to rub them away but, again, holds himself back.

“You do commissions,” Bucky says. “You…paint portraits. Weddings, mostly, but other things too sometimes. You complain, but only because you love it so much. You work so hard.”

“Bucky…” It’s barely a whisper beneath a breath, but it’s full of something like wonder, and it strikes a line down Bucky’s spine like lightening.

“And we’re still in love,” Bucky almost-whispers. “After fifteen years of marriage we’re still completely, utterly in love. You won’t even let me touch you until I’ve said it.” And that pretty blush rises in Steve’s cheeks, and Bucky doesn’t hold off anymore. He raises a hand to Steve’s face, brushes the pad of his thumb along that line of flush and wiping away the moisture he finds there. Steve hates it when people see him cry.

“We made a lot of sacrifices, and sometimes things are rocky, but it’s our life and we wouldn’t have it any other way. At least, I wouldn’t. Because…you’re a better person than me, and being around you made me a better person too. I don’t like who I am anymore, because who I am is who I became without you.” He presses their foreheads together and Steve sighs, his breath fanning over Bucky’s lips. “And maybe I dreamt it all. Maybe I fell asleep on a lonely Christmas Eve and imagined it all. But you’ve gotta give me a chance, Stevie.”

“Bucky,” Steve says again, but this time it doesn’t sound like a protest. If anything, it’s a request for affirmation.

“Yeah, pal,” Bucky says. “I’m right here.”

“This is crazy,” Steve says, and Bucky feels him shake his head, just slightly, against his own, but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even try. “We haven’t seen each other in fifteen years. We’re practically strangers—“

“I ain’t askin’ for a ceremony here, pal,” Bucky says. “Coffee, that’s all I’m askin’ for. Just a cup of coffee. You can still go to Paris, but please—not tonight.”

He separates their foreheads, pulls back so that he can see Steve’s eyes. Both of his hands are on Steve’s face now, and he removes one to find the compass around his neck, brings it up between them and holds it out, open wide, to Steve. He says, “A million years couldn’t change the way I feel about you, Steve. I’ll always find my way back.”

Eyes still on the compass, or the picture in the compass, Steve reaches his hand up to touch Bucky’s, the one still on his face.

He says, “Alright.”

Bucky smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading this story the last three(ish) months! This was my first multichapter story posted in two years, not to mention only my second Captain America story ever, and it was an absolutely lovely experience to have all of you so supportive and welcoming! Thank you so much to everyone who commented, kudos'd and bookmarked.  
> Thank you as well to my lovely girlfriend (mangobearer on tumblr) and my sister (creepyandersonmanatee on tumblr) for helping me look this over and iron out some more complicated plot points, as well as their unending support.  
> As always, you can find me on Tumblr under the same username. I have several more stories I'm planning on posting over the next few months, as well as a possible plot in mind for the Steve/Bucky 2015 Big Bang, which I believe starts next month, so keep a look out for that. There will also be a possible epilogue for this story. I've been trying to decide if I was going to write one since I first posted this one, and I still haven't decided, but you guys will be the first to know, via Tumblr, if I do decide to write one.   
> Until then, thank you again so much for reading, and I'll see you guys later. :)


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